FIRST, CATCH YOUR SLYTHERIN
by Demented Amanuensis
Summary: Is the new Marriage Law a recipe for disaster or happiness? Hermione Granger first has to catch her Slytherin, and then she'll find out. But why does she choose Lucius Malfoy, of all the unlikely candidates?
1. Chapter 1

PART 1

War, weary of wielding his sword and scour, had yawned hugely and returned to his cave, where he rubbed his eyes and went to sleep on his blood-red bed of skulls and bones.

The humans who had fought, died, killed and suffered could not enjoy such luxury. The war was over, and its aftermath began. And even though they were magical human beings, witches and wizards, the cleaning-up was a long and painful affair.

Every war has its heroes and villains. This war, the second and final one the wizarding world had fought against Lord Voldemort, was no exception: the major villain, Voldemort himself, was dead, slain by the hand of eighteen-year-old Harry Potter. Harry was the undisputed hero; when the events of the past year became public knowledge, though, his two friends Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger quickly acquired hero status as well.

The story of the three on the run, hounded by Death Eaters and Snatchers, was the stuff legends are made of. Wizarding England's own Odyssey, complete with dragons, werewolves, mythical monsters (Nagini), heroic deeds and all the other ingredients was raw material for reporters (Read the Full Story in the Daily Prophet Sunday Supplement!), writers of children's books (The Tremendous Three Save a Muggleborn, The Tremendous Three Go to Gringotts, The Tremendous Three Strike Again), writers of cookbooks (Hermione Granger's Compendium of Frugal Repasts); there were also rumours of an epic poem (The Potteriad), which nobody had seen or read yet, and of a giant mural Hogwarts' board of governors had allegedly commissioned. The heroes were young and looked excellent on a centrefold and even better on Chocolate Frog Cards.

Most of the time, Harry and Ron rather enjoyed giving autographs and delivering yet another account of the hardships they'd faced. Ron finally got the attention he craved, and Harry said he found it therapeutic.

Hermione, on the other hand, didn't like being worshipped. She didn't even feel particularly heroic, just very tired. And she was rather fed up with the wizarding world, its old-fashioned, male-dominated society, its bigotry and its complete inability to assimilate some of the more positive developments Muggle society had achieved over the past three hundred years. She was the only child of two now-almost-middle-aged, typical 68-ers, and as such had participated (if passively) in more demonstrations and committee meetings than she cared to remember. All this had taken place before she went to Hogwarts, and she hadn't really understood most of it until a few years later. Nevertheless, her parents' active engagement in a plethora of controversial political issues had given her the unshakeable conviction that the world could be changed for the better. Hermione also knew that changes could only be brought about by people who actively worked for them instead of sitting in front of the TV, moaning about the Conservatives winning yet again and conveniently forgetting that they'd stayed home watching Eastenders instead of going down to the polling station to vote.

The wizarding world seemed unaware of the fact that political change was necessary. They also appeared to be completely oblivious to the fact that change, while not always a good thing, often led to remarkable improvement of the lives of many, many people. When the war was over, Hermione had the impression – and unfortunately it was entirely correct – that her fellow wizards and witches wanted nothing more than to forget as quickly as possible. She could understand the desire for peace and prosperity to return, but what she felt unable to deal with was a society that looked backwards in order to reconstruct its future.

'But everything was alright until a few years ago!' Ron, the guy everybody except Hermione thought of as her ideal boyfriend and soul mate, was also the embodiment of the wizarding world's outdated beliefs. 'How can you say it's all wrong?'

They were sitting in the library of Harry's house at no.12, Grimmauld Place, waiting for their third to return from a meeting with the rector of the Aurors' Academy. Ron's interview with the rector was scheduled for two days later.

'I'm not saying it's all wrong.' Hermione took a swig of butterbeer. 'I'm saying that now is the time to implement some necessary changes. Modernize the law, introduce a fair tax system, reform the Wizengamot… There are hundreds of things that could and ought to be done.'

Ron shrugged. 'I don't see why. The system has been working okay for hundreds of years, why change it?'

He just didn't get it. Bravely withstanding the temptation to hurl her empty butterbeer bottle into her friend's face, Hermione took a deep breath and tried to remain calm. 'I don't think you can claim a system works fine, if a dictator can make it his own in less than two months. If at least there had been a division of powers, a democratically elected parliament to make laws, an independent executive to…' She fell silent, noticing that he was asleep.

With a sigh, she put on her shoes, grabbed her backpack and ascertained that her wand was securely fastened to her left forearm. She briefly thought about putting a magical tattoo saying "NINNY" on Ron's forehead, but abandoned the idea as too childish.

Her parents still hadn't quite forgiven her for their Australian adventure, but at least they were sensible people she could talk to. Somehow she'd reached an all-time low tonight and needed to discuss her situation with them. They, too, were biased, but at least they were biased in her favour, and not in favour of some old-fashioned idea of how the world ought to be.

The candles had burned down to stumps. Hermione cast flame-containing charms on them and Apparated home as silently as she could.

* * *

The smoke of cigars and pipes was wafting dense and blue in the candlelight. It was hot inside the meeting room; outside, dusk had given way to darkness, but the day's heat had remained almost unbroken. The trees stood still, their leaves immobile. There was no breeze to alleviate the moist warmth that pressed in from all sides.

The men sitting around the table had been there for many hours, discussing the future of the wizarding world. Robes had been discarded and shirtsleeves rolled up; sweat was glistening on foreheads and beading on upper lips.

'What about the Muggleborn problem?' a grey-haired wizard broke the silence. 'We have to address it, and quickly. I have it on good authority that many of them plan on leaving our world.'

Percy Weasley who, due to his junior rank, hadn't yet dared free himself of his robes, wagged his red head. 'Maybe that would be the best solution?' he said, looking anxiously at the serious, sweaty faces.

'It would neither be a solution, nor would it be a good thing for us,' Kingsley Shacklebolt said. He cast another cooling charm on himself and continued, 'We'd have to obliviate them and confiscate their wands-'

'Entirely feasible,' his elderly neighbour interrupted him. 'Not without certain risks, but entirely feasible.'

Percy nodded and sat up straighter.

'But,' Kingsley said, raising his voice just a little, 'we ought to think of the consequences. Firstly' – he gave his neighbour a sharp look – 'we have a responsibility for these people. Can you imagine what their existence would be like if we cast them back into the Muggle world, without a memory of their lives after the age of eleven, with no professional training and prey to accidental bouts of magic?'

The wizard sitting to the first speaker's left cleared his throat. He was wearing dark green Unspeakable robes. 'Maybe I ought to mention an ongoing research project, which has been started a few years ago. It was originally intended to provide an alternative to imprisonment at Azkaban, but there is no reason why-'

'Stop right here,' Kingsley interrupted him. 'I know about the project – don't give me that look, Wulfric, I am the bloody Minister, I have to know. There is no way, I repeat no way, that I'll be using it on Muggleborns. In my opinion, draining criminals of their magic is morally questionable. Doing it to Muggleborn wizards would be despicable.'

'Hear, hear!' the first speaker exclaimed. 'If I may add my two knuts, Minister…'

Kingsley nodded. 'Of course, Thaddaeus. Tell us about your ideas.'

Thaddaeus Horne, who'd recently been appointed to the Wizengamot, gave the Minister a brief nod. 'Thank you. There is an old Muggle saying: "If you can't beat them, join them." Apart from the fact that I entirely agree with Kingsley on the dangers of exiling Muggleborns from our society, I would like to suggest that we look at the problem the other way round. There is no way to throw or keep Muggleborn wizards permanently out of our world. So why don't we bind them to it? So tightly that they can't and, most of all, won't even want to leave it?'

'Unbreakable vows? Blood oaths?' Kingsley's right-hand neighbour chuckled. 'That's a bit… drastic, I'd say. Not to mention antiquated.'

'That wasn't at all what I had in mind. I was thinking of marriage.'

Horne's words were followed by a long, ruminative silence.

'You can't force people to marry,' the Minister finally said.

'If we make a law, we can.' Horne shrugged. 'Why not combine the two ideas? Either they get married and stay, or they'll be obliviated and exiled without their wands. Our population has drastically diminished during the war – we need families and children. Besides' – he opened his arms – 'think of the old pureblood versus Muggleborn conflict. The rift has deepened tremendously, and it must be mended, unless we want to face more of the same difficulties in the years to come. So why not state specifically that Muggleborns have to marry purebloods?'

'If you really go through with this completely absurd idea,' said Thomas Clearwater, head of Magical Law Enforcement, 'I demand more staff. Domestic violence is going to go through the roof.'

'I don't think it's absurd,' Percy muttered. 'But we'll have to think twice about how to sell it to the people.'

Kingsley nodded. 'Absolutely. Muggles have these people called spin doctors – I learned a thing or two about them while I worked for the Prime Minister. If we manage to get the media on our side, and maybe some celebrities-'

'And if,' Percy said, completely bewildered by his own brilliance, 'the law stipulates that the Mudblood chooses the pureblood, not the other way round…'

'Don't say Mudblood!' Clearwater snapped.

Percy went beet red. 'Sorry. But everybody-'

'Everybody _used_ to say it,' Horne interrupted him. 'But this is a new era, and so we call them Muggleborn. Understood?' Percy gave a contrite nod. 'Anyway,' Clearwater continued, 'the idea is excellent. Our Muggleborn brethren will be the ones who choose their pureblooded spouse. Now we just have to find someone… a figurehead, a wizard or witch from a Muggle background, with an untainted reputation…'

The room was so silent that the soft hissing and guttering of the candles was clearly audible. Rivulets of sweat ran unchecked down temples and necks, cigar ash dropped on the table, unheeded.

'Erm…' Percy Weasley inched a finger between his shirt collar and neck. 'Maybe… maybe Hermione Granger?'

* * *

The decision to stay a while at her parents' house had been a good one, Hermione thought. There was no denying that she'd loved being a witch from the moment she'd learned the truth about her magical abilities, but being a witch and making use of those talents didn't equal acceptance of the wizarding world as it was.

Three weeks had passed since she'd left Grimmauld Place after her last altercation with Ron. After a good night's sleep she had written a letter to the boys, explaining that she needed some time to herself and that she'd get in touch when she was ready. She'd spent the time catching up on her native Muggle world, enjoying the comforts of electric light and takeaway food and talking to her mum and dad. They'd made her realize under how much pressure she'd been during the last years, and encouraged her to take a break. If she needed money, she could work part-time as a receptionist in her parents' dental surgery, and in the meantime she was at leisure to explore her options.

Right now, she was tending towards living a Muggle existence with occasional outings to the wizarding world, but Hermione knew that this was just her way of reacting to the emotional and physical stress of last year. Sooner or later, she'd want to finish her formal education and pass her N.E.W.T.s. All the knowledge and skills she'd acquired at Hogwarts would be completely useless anywhere but in the wizarding world, and she didn't fancy herself stacking frozen meals at Tesco's. After a period of rest, she was sure that she was going to find her very own way of wandering back and forth between the two worlds.

The heat wave that had driven everybody to distraction had ended a couple of days ago with storms and heavy rainfall. Now the world seemed clean and bright, the smell of wet earth and crushed petals was still lingering, and Hermione decided to go and have breakfast in her favourite café. She'd just put on a pair of linen trousers and a white linen shirt, and was deliberating whether to wear sandals or trainers, when an owl landed on the windowsill and knocked against the glass with its beak.

Why couldn't they just leave her be, she thought grimly and opened the window. Probably the Aurors' Academy had decided that they needed to pass an entrance exam in spite of being war heroes, and now they needed her help. Wasn't that typical? First they asked for her assistance, only to complain and call her Miss Whiplash, once she took things in hand. It wasn't fair, and it had happened too many times while they were at school. While rummaging through her things in search for an owl treat, she was mentally composing an acerbic reply.

The letter the owl was carrying looked official, though.

Hermione stared at the Ministry seal for a while before breaking it open. What if they wanted her to be keynote speaker at yet another stupid ceremony? She couldn't very well decline, could she? Maybe it was best to refasten the missive to the owl's leg and send it away.

Curiosity won, though, as it always had. And, as almost always when her inquisitiveness rode roughshod over her instincts, she cursed herself for giving in to it. An invitation to a private appointment with Kingsley Shacklebolt couldn't possibly mean anything good. Ministers didn't talk to young girls – war heroines or not – unless they were angry or wanted something. Since Hermione could think of nothing that might have attracted ministerial wrath, she was pretty sure Kingsley was going to have some kind of request.

The mere idea of having to deal with demands made her cringe. Being the clever girl she was, though, she told herself that, if Kingsley sent her a handwritten letter asking to see him in private, it had to be important, and if it was important, he certainly wasn't going to be deterred by an unsuccessful delivery. Sooner or later she'd have to go and see the man, short of leaving the country for an indeterminate amount of time. Since Hermione had no intention of going on a spontaneous trip o Inner Mongolia, she decided that it would be better to get it over with. There was still time for breakfast, and a shower and a change of clothes after returning home.

Trying to ignore the feeling that this beautiful, clear morning had somehow been tainted, as if a layer of grease and ash had settled over it, Hermione grabbed her purse and book and walked out of the house.

She strode down the street, whistling to herself. When she realized that the tune she was whistling was the death scene from Madame Butterfly, she stopped abruptly.

* * *

At eleven a.m. sharp Hermione was standing in the anteroom of Kingsley's office and trying to ignore his secretary, whose eyes were resting on her with unveiled curiosity. She'd changed into a dark blue, linen trouser suit and put on another white shirt. Ironing wasn't a chore for a witch, after all. The sandals she'd chosen were a bit uncomfortable, and she hoped that she wouldn't have to wait for too long. Nobody had offered her a seat, and the soles of her feet were beginning to burn.

She'd just decided to disregard etiquette and sit down in one of the comfy-looking chairs, when the door opened and Kingsley's large form emerged. She'd expected him to shake her hand, but he enclosed her in a big hug, which she hesitantly returned.

'You look fabulous,' he said, holding her at arm's length and looking her up and down. 'So you have recovered well from… well, everything?'

The secretary's face fell when her boss ushered Hermione into his office and closed the door after them. Her lunch break was about to start in half an hour's time, and she would've loved to tell the other girls about meeting a war hero.

Five minutes later Hermione's face fell, too. 'You can't be serious!' she croaked, her mouth suddenly dry.

Kingsley nodded sagely. 'I know it must come to you as a shock, but try to look at it from my point of view.'

'I think I'd like to look at it from my own point of view. You've got enough underlings who are keen to look at everything from your point of view. Come to think of it, what _is_ your point of view?'

'Well, firstly we absolutely have to solve the age-old conflict between pureblooded wizards and wizards from a Muggle background.'

'Minister, I'm sure you won't be able to fully appreciate my reasoning, because you probably don't know a lot of Muggle history. But I assure you that after the Second World War the Allied Forces didn't advocate marriages between survivors of concentration camps and SS officers. You can't just throw archenemies together in marriage! You have to educate people first, make them see-'

'You're right,' Kingsley interrupted her. 'That's exactly what I would do in an ideal world. As things are, we have to make fast progress. We can't wait thirty years, hoping that education is going to close the gap.'

'This isn't progress, Kingsley. This is a breach of every human right I can think of. It's absolutely outrageous!'

'It won't remain the only measure we take. There will be education, and there will be laws…'

'Made by whom?'

The minister frowned. 'Well, by me of course.'

Hermione had to close her eyes for a moment in order to stay calm. 'So that's what you call progress,' she said softly.

'It's what I call a beginning.' His voice betrayed a rapid loss of patience.

'What if I say no?'

The minister sighed heavily. 'You don't have to decide right here and now. You have twenty-four hours-'

'Twenty-four hours? To decide if and which pureblooded git I'm going to marry?'

'You have twenty-four hours,' he continued unperturbed, 'to decide whether you are on our side. My secretary will give you the complete text of the new Marriage Law, so you may read and think it through. If you say no, you'll be the first to be obliviated and leave the wizarding world. I'm sorry, Hermione, but that's how it is.'

'That's how it is,' she repeated, feeling as if she was having a nightmare, all the more terrible for being so realistic. 'That's how you say thank you for all I've done. That's what you've learned from hundreds of people dying for our cause. That's your rejection of racism.'

For a moment she thought she saw compassion in his eyes. Then the fleeting expression was gone. 'It's been all over the papers for two weeks. People are enthusiastic. The law will enter into force tomorrow at noon, and you'll be the first to set an example. Which way is up to you.' He rose from his chair. 'I expect you here tomorrow, at the same time.'

Ignoring the minister's proffered hand, Hermione heaved herself out of her chair and staggered towards the door. The secretary, who handed her a substantial scroll of parchment, gave her an inquiring look. 'Are you all right, Miss Granger?'

'Never better,' Hermione said, resisting the urge to break out into hysterical laughter.


	2. Chapter 2

PART 2

It wasn't yet noon when Hermione Apparated directly into her bedroom. Her parents were at work, and since this was a Thursday, and they worked late on Thursdays, they weren't likely to come home before ten p.m.

Hermione had had a rather generous breakfast in order to calm her fluttering nerves. The first thing she did was race to the bathroom and vomit. Then she washed her face, cleaned her teeth and changed into a pair of old shorts and a sweatshirt. She took two aspirin, made a pot of strong tea and settled down on her dad's favourite chair, where she opened the scroll of parchment she'd received.

Crookshanks strolled into the room after a while, sniffed, detected there was nothing to eat, and vanished into the kitchen. Hermione heard him crunch a few pieces of dry food and smiled to herself. When he returned, she briefly lifted the parchment from her lap, so he could curl up on her legs. Then she returned to her reading.

She read the text three times from beginning to end, occasionally scratching Crookshanks. When she was done, she went to the kitchen to make a few sandwiches and carried the plate back into the living room. Crookshanks looked at her expectantly, but she shook her head. She drew her wand and summoned a notepad and biro. Thus equipped, she sat down at the dining table and jotted down notes with an expression of intense concentration on her face.

Hermione Granger may be an idealist, but she was also a realist. She'd understood immediately – hence the shock – that Kingsley was dead serious. He hadn't given her much time, and if there was a third possibility besides getting married or being exiled, it could only be hidden in a loophole of the law. In order to find such a weak point, however, she'd need time, and she couldn't do it on her own, because she lacked the necessary legal knowledge. So she only had two options.

If she chose exile, they'd take away her wand and erase all her memories since the day she'd received her Hogwarts letter. She wouldn't be able to go to university, due to her lack of credentials. The spectre of sitting at some supermarket checkout for the rest of her life rose again. But the fear of losing her memories, of being robbed of everything that had made her who and what she was, was far more terrifying. The guilt and remorse she'd felt after tampering with her parents' minds so they were unaware of their identities, and their blank faces when she'd pronounced "Obliviate!" were still vivid in her memory. There was no way she'd let anybody do that to her.

Her path therefore was clear. No forks in the road, no choice of direction. She had to comply.

Once she'd accepted the inevitable, Hermione started to think about her future. Every cloud had its silver lining, so maybe there was some hidden positive aspect to all this. Some way she might turn her personal catastrophe into something meaningful, useful. Yes, she'd had enough of saving the wizarding world, and she'd already done more than her share. But she was well aware of her talents and intelligence, and of her almost sacrosanct status as member of the Golden Trio (sacrosanct to most, she thought grimly, except for Kingsley Shacklebolt). She was also driven and determined. There had to be something she could do, if not for herself, then maybe for less fortunate victims of this new law the minister was so excited about.

She had brains, she had courage. Add a bit of money, well a lot of money, to the mix, and she'd be able to achieve almost anything, provided she played her cards well.

If she looked at the matter from a slightly different point of view (and certainly not Kingsley's) it was a challenge. Destroy the system from within and build a new one. It was going to be a lot of work, but that wasn't a problem. She liked to work. The problem was money.

She picked up the scroll again and read article 5 for the fourth time. Apart from the fact that those bastards deserved to rot in hell for even thinking of making such a law, they'd at least made provisions for the Muggleborns: not only were they to receive a substantial dowry from the Ministry, they were also entitled to access their pureblooded spouses' fortune, without any reservation or limit. The couples had to produce offspring, but only within the first ten years of their marriage, and only one child was mandatory. In case of divorce, which was possible only after fifteen years of marriage, the child or children were to stay with their Muggleborn parent. The pureblooded partner had to pay generous alimony or, in case he or she was unable to do so, the Ministry was duty-bound to take over.

Hermione didn't especially like children; being only eighteen, she hadn't yet made any plans to become a mother, but she was sure she could deal with one child. She didn't have to get pregnant anytime soon either, so at least it wasn't an immediate threat. Unfortunately article 6 made it clear that the marriage had to be consummated within forty-eight hours after the wedding ceremony. She sighed. It certainly wasn't going to be pleasant, but she'd had sex with Ron, and that hadn't been pleasant either. She'd survived the Cruciatus Curse, so she was doubtlessly going to survive sex with a man she didn't love. And once they were done with the sex, they'd both be free to go their own way. It wasn't even remotely close to the future she'd imagined for herself, but that couldn't be helped.

Not that she had any idea how to break the news to her parents…

* * *

For her second appointment with Kingsley Shacklebolt, Hermione had transfigured her Hogwarts uniform into a set of very sophisticated summer robes. She'd also tamed her hair and put a cooling and a feel-good charm on her high-heeled sandals. She was definitely ready to face the enemy.

'Punctual as always,' Kingsley said jovially, as he let her precede him into his office. 'Well, Hermione, I hope you've decided to do the right thing.'

'I hope so too. Thanks for letting me read the law, by the way. Before I inform you about my decision, there's something I need to ask you, though.'

Kingsley, who'd already started to open a bottle of champagne, put it back into the ice bucket. 'Of course, of course. Ask away.'

'How do I choose my husband? The law isn't very clear on that, it merely says "in an appropriate fashion". And once I've made my choice, is there any way he can refuse or buy his way out?'

'Look at you.' Kingsley laughed in a way that made Hermione's scalp crawl. 'Who on earth would want to refuse you?'

'You never know,' she replied as politely as she could, given that she was thinking of castrating him with a blunt knife. 'So please answer my question, Kingsley.'

He sat down ponderously in the chair opposite hers. 'There are two lists,' he said. 'One contains the names of all the purebloods, the other all the Muggleborns. The moment you sign the list next to your name and thus consent to obey the Marriage Law, an unbreakable magical bond is formed. We've already done the footwork – all the eligible purebloods have signed on their list, and I mean all of them. Being exiled, penniless and without memories, would be even harder on them than on the Muggleborns. So they are already bound by the law. Now, if you sign next to the name of your intended, the bond goes full circle. Neither of you can escape it, unless you want to face the consequences.'

'Hm.' Hermione rubbed her forehead. 'What exactly are the consequences?'

'Nothing overly pleasant, I assure you.'

She merely raised an eyebrow.

'Well, if you must know: the loss of all magical abilities – that's something the Department of Mysteries came up with, very ingenious – loss of fortune, and exile. Not in Muggle England,' he added.

Hermione chose not to ask any further. 'That sounds… quite nasty. And the purebloods know about the consequences?'

Kingsley smiled grimly. 'Oh yes, they do. We're nothing if not thorough.'

'I'm sure you are.' She took a deep breath. 'Well then, I agree.'

A wave of Kingsley's wand made the cork pop out of the bottle. 'That definitely calls for a celebration.' He filled two flutes and handed one to Hermione. 'Ron will be ecstatic!'

Taking a sip of champagne to mask a smile that was neither nice nor sunny, Hermione said, 'I'm not sure ecstatic is quite the right word.'

* * *

The Fountain of Magical Brethren that had once stood in the centre of the Ministry's entrance hall had been replaced by a statue of The Boy Who Lived. Hermione felt a pang of distress when she walked past it with Kingsley and thought about the jokes she and the boys had cracked about this piece of art. This was no time for jokes though. She'd never felt so acutely that her childhood was over, and never had she felt quite so lonely.

The foyer was packed with journalists, dignitaries and celebrities. On their way down, Kingsley had told her that the press conference would be transmitted live on the WWW. There were going to be visual transmissions too – a huge crystal ball was suspended from the ceiling, and similar, larger crystal spheres would show the images it broadcast on the main square of every wizarding community in England. Hermione briefly thought of Mrs Weasley, to whose stifling motherliness and antiquated views she'd never been able to warm, and of the look on her face once Hermione signed the list. The mental image cheered her up sufficiently to face the crowd with equanimity.

Putting those charms on her shoes had been an excellent idea – there were speeches, long and boring tirades the complete uselessness of which was rivalled only by their hypocrisy. Finally it was Hermione's turn.

She touched her wand to her throat and pronounced a Sonorus charm. The hall lay in complete silence. 'My dear fellow witches and wizards,' Hermione said, 'the Minister thinks that the Marriage Law is going to end a conflict that has been going on for centuries. I'm not sure it will, to tell you the truth. But,' she continued over the nervous murmur her words had provoked, 'I'm willing to make the effort. I'm ready to set an example. The law will enter into force in exactly one minute, and I'll be the first to choose a pureblooded husband and sign my name on the list. Many others will follow. Some will choose exile, and I hope they will be able to live good, happy lives. Whatever you decide to do, choose wisely and don't let other people's opinions influence you. You are free human beings, you have a choice. Maybe the most important one you've ever made in your lives. Whatever your choice, I hope with all my heart that it'll be the right one for you!'

She stepped back and smiled at Kingsley, who was looking daggers at her. He had to keep up appearances though, and raised his hands to calm the applause that had risen in the wake of Hermione's words. 'The time has come,' he pronounced and drew his wand. 'The Marriage Law' – he touched the scroll with his wand – 'now enters into force.'

Despite all her misgivings and doubts, Hermione had to admit to herself that the ceremony as such was impressive. Magic rose from the scroll in a whirl of colour and energy, the air crackled with magical power, and finally, with a blinding flash of white, the scroll turned into a massive sheet of gold that affixed itself to the wall in a free space between countless other laws.

The lists had been laid out on a small pulpit, and now Kingsley handed her a magnificent eagle quill. Hermione's hand trembled as she took it and approached the pulpit. The reporters' flashlights blinked spasmodically as the young witch put her signature next to her own name. Then she turned to the second list, and the rhythm of miniature lightning became even more frenzied. Kingsley, who was standing next to her, helpfully pointed at the page containing the names of all the unmarried Weasley males.

But Hermione shook her head and leafed through the sheets until she'd found the one she wanted. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the minister's face slacken; his skin took on an ashen tone. The flashlights flickered like mad, but he didn't seem to be aware of them; he made no attempt to control his expression.

This was the moment, she thought. The beginning of the rest of her life, clichéd though it sounded. She took the quill in a firmer grip and steadfastly put her signature next to "Malfoy, Lucius Abraxas, 16 August 1955". The ink glowed briefly, and she felt a rush of magic flow through her. The bond, as Kingsley had predicted, had come full circle.

She turned to face the reporters with a smile on her face. Cameras were clicking, dictoquills were poised to write.

'Miss Granger, what are you going to do next?' a male voice asked.

'I think I'm going to pay a visit to my fiancé, so we can fix a date for the wedding.'

'Oh, don't be coy, Miss Granger,' Rita Skeeter's voice shrilled across her colleagues' heads, 'I'm sure the date has already been set for a long time!'

'Unless he is psychic, I assure you it hasn't,' Hermione replied.

The hubbub of voices died down a little, as people gave one another looks of incomprehension. 'But,' said a young female journalist, who'd followed her every word with a look of sheer adoration, 'aren't you, I mean…' She fell silent, suddenly aware that this situation had huge foot-in-mouth potential. But then she soldiered on, 'Aren't you engaged to Ronald Weasley?'

She had to make the most of this moment. If things went as badly as she was sure they would, this was going to be her unique source of happiness for the next fifteen years. Well ten, if the child didn't take after its father.

Hermione slowly turned around to pick up the list of pureblooded candidates and held it in front of her so that the reporters could see it. 'I am happy to announce,' she said into the silence, 'that I have just chosen Mr Lucius Malfoy to be my future husband.'

* * *

She'd have liked to see Molly Weasley's face, but her future husband's visage was no small recompense for her decision, either. Hermione had decided to go to Malfoy Manor right after the press conference, partly because she thought that a surprised Malfoy would be easier to tackle – and she was sure that he'd recover from is shock rather quickly – but also because she was aware that she had to ride the wave of courage before it broke, as she was certain it would.

The Lord of the Manor had to have a healthy appetite, because he had just sat down to lunch, as a terrified house elf informed Hermione. She merely nodded and strode past the squealing, jumping creature – they must've heard the news, too, and obviously didn't dare prevent their future mistress from interrupting their master's lunch. Hermione didn't envy them, but given her own situation she didn't feel particularly sympathetic.

She knocked on the closed door two elves were half-heartedly guarding and entered the room without waiting for a response. Malfoy evidently hadn't expected her to drop by so soon, because he was dressed casually, with only a half-unbuttoned waistcoat over his shirt, and was wearing his hair in a loose braid. He rose and managed to catch his napkin just in time.

'Miss Granger,' he said, sketching the slightest of bows.

'Mr Malfoy.' Hermione inclined her head by a mere fraction. 'I thought it was better if we talked before the reporters descend upon us.'

'Without doubt,' he replied coolly. 'Would you care to join me?'

'I'd just like something to drink, I'm parched. But no lunch, thank you.'

'As you wish.' Malfoy pulled out a chair for her and sat down. 'To what do I owe the… unexpected pleasure of having been singled out by a war hero?'

A little puzzled by his straightforward question, Hermione thankfully accepted a glass of water and drained it in one go. 'Suffice it to say that I had my reasons. My condolences, by the way. I'm sorry your wife died. She was… a great help to our cause.' She'd rehearsed that bit, and that was exactly how it sounded.

Malfoy shrugged. 'Since we are soon going to become husband and wife, there is no reason why I shouldn't tell you that I am not overwhelmed by grief.'

'Really?' Hermione shook her head in disbelief. 'You seemed very, well, close after the battle.'

'So did you and Mr Weasley, but you're not going to marry him.'

'I won't marry him because I'm not in love with him. But he's still my friend, at least as far as I am concerned.'

'I'm afraid the friendship might have become a little unilateral.'

She drank another glass of water. 'Yes, probably. So what about you and your wife? You had been married for quite a long time, didn't you at least like her?'

'Miss Granger, I think it is a little early for intimate conversation.'

'Is that some kind of weird pureblood etiquette? No intimate conversation before eight p.m.?'

'I meant early in the, er, relationship,' he said. Was that a flicker of humour in his eyes?

'Oh. I see. Well, let's talk business then – when should we get married?'

'Hmm.' He briefly caught her eye and thoughtfully dabbed his mouth with the napkin. 'Usual courtship etiquette doesn't apply here, so I would suggest in three weeks?'

Hermione swallowed. 'So soon?'

'I can hardly wait to be joined to you in matrimony. I'm sure you understand.'

She'd expected many things but certainly not this particular brand of dry humour that made her chuckle. 'I'm glad we see eye to eye. And since you're being so very forthcoming, I'm sure you won't mind telling me who traditionally organizes a wizarding wedding.'

'The groom's family. In our case that would be me.'

'And what's my part in all this?'

He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. 'You spend your time choosing your trousseau, worrying about your bridal robes and giving advice on the colour of the flower arrangements.'

'My trousseau? You mean bed linens and napkins and the like? That would be a bit… redundant, wouldn't it?'

'One can never have too much bed linen,' he replied with a smirk.

'Or napkins.'

'Or, indeed, napkins.' He poured her a glass of white wine and put it in front of her. 'Any suggestions concerning the flower arrangements?'

Hermione shrugged. 'I like white and cream, but…' Now the wave of courage was breaking, she could feel it. Sheer arrogance and immaturity had got her into a situation she couldn't escape from, and now, as she was sitting opposite the man she'd shrugged off as some kind of negligible, collateral damage she was beginning to realize that he might become a bigger problem than reconstructing the wizarding world.

Sitting next to him at the table and sharing a bottle of wine made her see him as a human being. A man who'd recently been widowed. A man who'd spent a year in Azkaban, and another year as Voldemort's virtual prisoner. A man who had been forced to marry a stranger, just like her, and threatened to lose everything if he didn't. At least she had chosen him of her own volition, whereas he…

She raised her head and looked straight into his eyes. 'I'm sorry.'

Eyes narrowing, he cocked his head. 'Sorry? Somehow I think you are not referring to the flower arrangements.'

'It can't be…' She fidgeted with the stem of her wine glass. 'It can't be easy for you. Not that it's easy for me, on the contrary, but…' She gave him a crooked smile. 'I suppose you don't react well to being shanghaied into a marriage.'

'I certainly don't, but I am aware that you didn't make the law. Considering that Dolores Umbridge is unmarried and a Muggleborn…'

'No! But she… the Commission… how…'

'His Dark Lordship was a halfblood, as you well know. So Umbridge was not the first to, well, gloss over her background when it suited her. After listening to thirty minutes' worth of speeches by Shacklebolt and his cronies, you of all people ought to be able to appreciate the entertainment value of irony.'

A grin spread over Hermione's face. 'It bordered on unbearable. So, you were afraid Umbridge was going to choose you?'

'The possibility had entered my mind.'

'So you're glad it's me?'

'I am most certainly relieved. Although I am still wondering why on earth you chose me. Is it the money?'

'Didn't you just say it was a bit early…' She had to stop there, right in the middle of a witty reply, because he had shifted slightly, baring his left wrist in the process. 'Oh my god! That wound, what-'

Face hardening, he gingerly rearranged his cuff. 'Regretting your decision already, Miss Granger?'

'No, absolutely not! I was just – it doesn't look too good. Who healed this?'

An impatient sigh. 'Somebody at St. Mungo's. Now if you please-'

'Who? What was the Healer's name? This is an outrage! Why don't you…' She interrupted herself, seeing the expression on his face. She couldn't quite read it. It didn't make her afraid – there wasn't any hatred; it was fatigue, she thought, bone-deep exhaustion and… 'Tell me who did this shitty job, and I'll come down on them like a ton of bricks! I'm going to call St. Mungo's right now, tell them to send over-'

That actually coaxed a smile from him. 'Belligerent as ever, I see. They won't send anybody, though. They even seem to have, er, convinced my personal physician that he didn't want to see me.'

'That's…' Words failed her. Biting her lip so hard that she drew blood, she stared out of the window. 'That's not what I fought for,' she finally said, when she felt she could speak again.

'The inevitable disappointment that comes with fighting for a cause. Do tell, Miss Granger, am I by any chance one of your causes?'

'Not really, no.' She bent forward to examine his wrist more closely. To her surprise, he let her, and she was careful not to touch his skin when she pulled back the cuff from the half-healed, angry red welt. 'This was an open fracture, right?' Her wand was in her right hand; she hadn't even realized that she'd drawn it. 'May I?'

'I thought we were going to talk about the wedding preparations,' was the calm answer.

'We can do that later, or tomorrow. Now let me have a look at this.' The look he gave her was part amusement, part incredulity. She felt she had to elaborate. 'You know I spent almost a year on the run with two boys, well, everybody knows that now. I didn't come unprepared – knowing the dangers, and knowing Harry and Ron… I'd packed a few textbooks on mediwizardry, and I read all of them twice. I'm not claiming to be a fully qualified Healer, but I learned a few things about broken bones, among others. And diagnostic spells, lots of them, for some reason they're what I liked best.' She was babbling; even Ron would've known that she was nervous. That was one impression she didn't want to create. So she simply repeated, 'May I?'

'If you must.'

'I'll take that as a yes.'

It was as she'd expected: both ulna and radius had been broken, and the radius fracture had pierced muscle and skin. The Healer or whoever had set the bones had done a lousy job.

'Can you move your left hand?' Now he was staring at her; he didn't like this at all. Still, he didn't retrieve his hand. 'This must hurt terribly. I suppose you know the bones must be broken and reset?'

'I think,' he said, and now there was more than just a note of impatience in his voice, 'that the subject of my health has been thoroughly exhausted.'

Hermione wasn't really listening, because the truth had begun to dawn on her, and she was too busy thinking of a solution. They may have taken him to St. Mungo's, but it wasn't difficult to guess how they'd treated him there. He'd probably been dumped on a junior apprentice, and she strongly suspected that the treatment he'd received had been less inexpert than intentionally wrong. Similar things happened in the Muggle world as well, but that didn't mean she could condone them in the wizarding world. And she knew exactly what to do about his wrist, but she'd leave that for the next day.

'Flower arrangements, then,' she said brightly.

Malfoy's eyebrows shot up. 'Any instructions beyond your predilection for white and cream?'

'No jasmine, please, the smell makes me sick. And no lilies, for obvious reasons.'

'I'm afraid your reasons might not be quite as obvious to me.'

'White lilies are usually used for funereal wreaths. In the Muggle world. Chrysanthemums too, by the way.'

'I see. We use the lilies as a symbol for purity.'

'Well, I'm not a virgin, so they're not compulsory I guess.'

He smirked. 'What refreshing honesty.'

'You'd realize that anyway during the wedding night. I didn't want to get your hopes up, in case you thought you'd be the first.'

'Since you're such a woman of the world, are you going to choose scarlet wedding robes?'

Hermione rolled her eyes. 'I can't believe you're that old-fashioned. I'd expect that scarlet woman bullshit from Molly Weasley, but certainly not from you!' Then she realized that he'd been joking. In a way, that was more disconcerting than finding out he was a closet bigot. 'No, I'll be wearing white. But…' She took a sip of wine. She hated coming across all naïve and Muggleborn. 'I have no idea where to get them – I only know Madam Malkin's shop, and the age difference might be a bit too obvious if I wore Hogwarts robes. Besides, I don't think she'd be up to creating adequate robes for the wedding of the year..'

He was so obviously puzzled by her last statement that she almost laughed. Somehow, though, she thought that it might shatter this strange truce that allowed them to talk to each other civilly, and so she merely gave him an expectant look.

'I thought,' he said slowly, as if he was carefully choosing his words, 'that you'd prefer a quiet ceremony, something private in a remote location.'

She took a deep breath. 'Mr Malfoy, I suppose you heard my speech.' He nodded. 'I said I was going to set an example-'

'And I'm sure there are a dozen interpretations to that statement, all of them correct,' he interrupted her.

With a quick smile, she continued, 'And you can't set an example by eloping to some remote location to get married. We'll have a full-blown ceremony, right here at the Manor, followed by a reception people will be talking about for at least two weeks. And I'll blow the entire dowry those bastards have promised me on some superb wedding robes. Provided you deign to tell me where to get them.'

'My wife had all her outfits made by Frivolous Frills. So did her friends.'

'Did you like them?'

He frowned. 'I hardly ever met them.'

'Not her friends, her robes.'

'Oh, those. They looked… all right. I suppose.'

Hermione nearly laughed out loud. He may have been a Death Eater, and he may be the head of one of England's oldest wizarding families, but in the end he was just a man. A man who didn't notice what his wife was wearing. She felt oddly reassured. 'I'll go there then. One more thing: I think you ought to meet my parents. They're terribly upset about the whole Marriage Law thing, and after the things they heard about you… well, you can imagine. Maybe you could put their minds at ease, just a bit?'

'Only if you agree to meet my mother.'

That really threw her. 'Your…'

'My mother. I didn't grow on a tree, you know.'

'No, of course not. I merely was under the impression… Draco never mentioned he had a grandmother.'

'I hardly imagine that the two of you spent much time making polite conversation on the topic of your respective families.'

'Erm, no. That's right. So your mother is still alive? Where does she live?'

'On her family estate near Salisbury. Not far from here.'

'Mr Malfoy, don't get me wrong, but is this meeting going to be very awkward? Does she believe in all this pureblood stuff?'

He sighed heavily. 'No, she doesn't. Or why do you think she chose to live on her own?'

'Oh, I see. Sorry, I didn't mean to be tactless.'

'I'm sure you never _mean_ to be tactless, Miss Granger.'

She smiled at the veiled rebuke. 'You'd be surprised. Would you mind if I come back tomorrow, for a bit of mutual parent-briefing?'

He bowed slightly. 'I'd be delighted.'


	3. Chapter 3

PART 3

After her meeting with Malfoy, Hermione felt the strong need to clear her head. So she didn't Apparate directly into her room, as she usually did, but to a small park about a mile from her parents' house. The charms on her sandals were still holding, and the warmth was still bearable. She walked slowly, while trying to analyze the conversation she'd just had with her future husband.

It hadn't been what she'd expected at all. To be honest, she wasn't quite sure what she'd been expecting – there had been too little time for her to form anything but vague images, mostly influenced by memories of her few encounters with Malfoy. The conversation she'd mentally pictured had involved a lot of sneering and nasty quips about her heritage, looks, intentions and mental faculties.

Instead, he'd been rather quiet. True, he'd tried – and successfully – to rile her up a couple of times, but it hadn't hurt, and she was pretty sure he hadn't intended to wound her. Malfoy's remark about Umbridge came back to her – if that had really been what he'd been preparing himself for, Hermione Granger announcing that she'd picked him must have been a pleasant surprise. He' told her he was relieved. But that still didn't account for his… what exactly was it? Had it been somebody else, she'd have thought him subdued. But Malfoy? Subdued? Somehow that didn't seem to fit. And still… He'd gone through a lot, these past two years. It must have changed him, whether for the better or the worse remained to be seen. Considering his behaviour today, she was inclined to assume it had been for the better.

Then again, she'd always been too forgiving. In hindsight, the mere thought of how she'd always welcomed Ron back – in their third year, last year – made her terribly angry with herself. She knew why she did it, of course. It was one of her greatest weaknesses: Hermione Granger craved nothing more than to be liked, loved, acknowledged for what she was. Hermione Granger was terribly afraid of losing the few friends she had. She was terrified of break-ups and hurtful words.

And now she was stepping, open-eyed, into exactly that trap with Malfoy.

It was a textbook case, so simple and clear that it was almost hilarious. She'd have to spend the next fifteen years married to the man, even to bear his child. The illusion of being able not to care, to live completely separate lives – now she recognized it for what it was, namely a rather cunning defence her own mind had put up against itself. She could never have gone through with her plan, if she'd allowed herself to think of Malfoy as just a man, maybe not like any other but still a man, with everything the word implied: morning breath, quirky little habits, likes and dislikes, shower or bath, cats or dogs, mountains or sea. Sex, too. He didn't look half-bad, and that aura of vulnerability…

The sneering, cold-hearted uber-monster who'd lived in her imagination couldn't have hurt her. Despite all his money and breeding, she would always have thought him beneath her. But the man, the human being, was capable of hurting her, because she believed in the equality of all human beings.

And then, there was her innate need to right all wrongs. His wrist being a case in point – why, oh why was she incapable of being more like Ron, just sometimes, just when it would have served to protect herself? Ron would've shrugged and argued that Malfoy didn't deserve any better. In a way he would have been right. The sufferance Malfoy had inflicted on so many people was far greater than any pain his badly healed wrist might cause him. That was a fact. Still, making the man suffer deliberately just wasn't _right_. A prison sentence would have been right. A fine would have been right. Community work would have been right. Paying him back with a festering scar and stopping his doctor from seeing to it was just petty and mean.

Hermione stopped to cover her eyes with her hands. You see, she said to herself, you've already involved yourself emotionally. Tomorrow you're going to Hogwarts to talk to Madam Pomfrey, and you won't stop till she consents to come to Malfoy Manor with you and heal the bastard properly.

When she raised her head, she realized that she'd almost arrived at her parents' house. She'd walked a few more steps towards her destination when the shock hit her – there were at least a dozen Law Enforcement officers milling around on the pavement and in the small front garden. Hell, there was one on the roof!

Last night she'd told her parents about the Marriage Law and her intentions of complying so she could stay in the wizarding world, but she hadn't told them whom she was going to marry. They'd thought it was Ron, and she hadn't bothered to correct them; there was time enough to do that, there was no need to give them two shocks on one night… Not for a second had she thought that anybody was going to vent their anger on her parents, her home…

She covered the last hundred yards at a run and arrived, panting and sweaty, clutching the stitch in her side with her left hand. 'What… happened?' she asked the nearest wizard.

The wand poking her throat sobered her up rather quickly.

'I'm Hermione Granger!' she snapped indignantly, still out of breath. 'This is my parents' house, and… What the hell are you doing?'

The stony-faced law enforcer performed a series of complicated spells before he stepped back and gave her an apologetic smile. 'Beg your pardon, miss, but we have to make sure – you could be wearing a glamour.'

'Has anything happened to my parents?'

He shook his head. 'My boss, Mr Clearwater, thought it best to dispatch a few men to your parents' house and workplace, just in case things got nasty.'

'But they haven't…' She felt nauseous with relief.

'No, no. We merely had to put up a shield to divert all the owls. We don't want the neighbours to get suspicious, now do we? Congratulations, by the way!' He held out a broad, reassuring hand.

Hermione shook it and forced herself to smile. 'Thanks. I wasn't aware…' She made a helpless gesture.

'You should've been, Miss. You don't get engaged to Lucius Malfoy without people getting a bit tetchy.'

That, she thought, was probably the understatement of the century.

* * *

The confrontation with her parents had been highly unpleasant – not that she blamed them – and Hermione had had a wretched night.

Neither her mother nor her father had been particularly happy with the idea of heir brilliant daughter getting married when she hadn't even finished school. Still, her father liked Ron. Mrs Granger, less impressed with Quidditch and more attuned to her daughter's intellectual needs, didn't exactly dislike Ron, but she didn't want him as her son-in-law.

Then Hermione had dropped her bombshell – unsurprisingly, her parent's relief had only lasted as long as the sentence 'I'm no going to marry Ron.'

'But why?' her mother had asked, while Mr Granger went to prepare two large gin-and-tonics. 'Why, Hermione? He's a criminal, he's a fascist, he tortured you…'

'That was his sister-in-law.'

'But he was there.'

'Yes, he was but…'

'Why, Hermione?' Her father had returned with the drinks, and they'd both stared at her as if she'd turned green and sprouted tentacles.

'It's… it's difficult to explain, really.'

'You never have difficulties explaining anything you're convinced of,' her father said. 'I've never seen you like this. Normally you're armed up to your teeth with arguments, so why not now, when you're making such an important decision?'

In the end she'd given up and just gone up to her room; the sensation of having completely failed had been worse than the thought that her parents thought she'd gone nuts.

They'd left early for work, and after a listless breakfast accompanied by reproachful stares from Crookshanks she'd Apparated to the gates of Hogwarts. She'd hoped to avoid Headmistress McGonagall, but to no avail. The house elves, dutiful as ever, had ignored her demands to stay incognito and announced her presence to her former head of house. Probably out of spite, Hermione thought ruefully. Nobody bore a grudge quite like a house elf.

So she'd had to endure half an hour's worth of veiled threats, badly disguised insults and rather invasive questioning in the Headmistress's office. As if that hadn't been bad enough, the argument she'd had afterwards with Poppy Pomfrey had completely drained her.

After ten minutes of fruitless arguing, she'd lost her rag. 'You're a Healer!' she'd yelled, 'You swore a fucking oath to preserve life and help human beings in need!'

'Human beings, yes, but not the likes of Lucius Malfoy! And you better keep a civil tongue in your head, young lady.'

'You forsake your oath, and you have the gall to reprimand me for saying fuck? I'll drag you before the Ethics Committee! Let's see what they have to say about it.'

The matron had gone pale. 'You wouldn't dare!'

'I think it requires less courage than fighting a giant bloody snake. Of course I'd dare, and if I tell them that you seem to believe you can decide who's human and who isn't, they won't have much of a choice in the matter.'

She'd won though, and Pomfrey had finally consented, if grudgingly, to accompany her to Malfoy Manor.

Hermione glanced at her watch. The struggling fiancé and the recalcitrant nurse had been gone for fifteen minutes. Either she'd murdered him and was already hiding the body, or she was doing some serious work.

Whatever it was, it was buying her some precious peace.

She'd almost dozed off, when a house elf popping into the room woke her up. After the half-slice of bendy toast she'd eaten in the morning, Hermione was feeling more than a little ravenous. Not sure whether Malfoy was going to ask her to stay for lunch – his thunderous expression at being dragged off by Pomfrey didn't give any cause for optimism – she asked for a ham sandwich and a cup of tea. Enough to tide her over, if Mr Wrong didn't offer her lunch, but not too much either in case he did.

When she'd entered the room and fallen into a chair, she'd been too exhausted to look at her surroundings. Fortified by a few bites of sandwich and sips of excellent, strong tea, Hermione felt up to inspecting the room.

She didn't like what she saw. The ambiente, which screamed "Money! Old Money!" at the top of its lungs, was neither cosy nor welcoming. To be sure, the furniture was antique and probably priceless, but it wasn't the kind of room you longed to come home to after a long day's work. More a museum than a home, it lacked any personal touch. Hermione could imagine Narcissa Malfoy's slender body impeccably arranged on one of those chairs, every inch of her robes perfectly in place, every hair of her coiffure in flawless order, daintily holding a teacup and making polite conversation. Well, that wasn't her idea of life at all. Something would have to be done. She didn't want to become an exhibit in a museum, and if Malfoy was happy prancing and posing, well, he could keep a few rooms to himself, untouched and museum-like.

The house elf reappearing next to her almost made Hermione choke on the last bite of her sandwich.

'The angry lady is gone now,' the elf announced. 'She says you can see the master now.'

Hermione frowned. 'See him? Where is he?'

'The angry lady said he has to stay in bed till tomorrow morning.'

'Oh, I see.' Hermione wasn't quite sure about Malfoy's reaction to her seeing him in such a vulnerable state. Then again, this might be a good time for him to swallow a few choice truths about his ancestral home. 'All right,' she said, getting up. 'Show me to his room, please.'

While she followed the elf that was scuttling down the corridor, it occurred to Hermione that she was on her way to the room where she was going to spend her wedding night.

No, "wedding night" was a concept far too fraught with romance. The room where she was going to have sex in three weeks' time with Lucius Malfoy. There, she'd said it, if only within her own mind. It sounded a bit prosaic, but that's what it was. A business transaction. Well, not entirely. She was acutely aware of her own desire always to be the best at anything she did, and painfully aware of the beauty of the recently deceased Mrs Malfoy; she had to admit to herself that she also thought of it as a competition of sorts. It was stupid and rather childish, especially given that the other competitor was now six feet under, but she couldn't get rid of the thought. The fact that she felt herself to be rather lacking in the erotic experience department didn't help either. Hermione made a mental note to get some books on the subject.

They had arrived on the first floor, and the elf knocked on a door – surely it was a figment of her imagination, but Hermione thought it looked quite forbidding.

'You can enter, miss,' the elf said. It pressed down the handle and was gone before Hermione had even stepped into the room.

Large and airy, was Hermione's first impression. Lots of people lived in flats much smaller than this bedroom. Bedchamber, rather. Room didn't quite do it justice. She liked the colours, though – Wedgwood blue, black and white were the predominant shades. A bit chilly in winter maybe, but ideal for summer. The bed, which she supposed was made of ebony, was downright enormous. Somehow she'd expected a four poster, but it didn't have a canopy or bedposts. There was some intricate carving, but her eyes were drawn to the man propped up against the cushions.

'Are you all right?' she asked, approaching the bed. There was no chair in sight, so she sat down on the edge.

Malfoy slowly opened his eyes. 'I expect I will be.' His voice was a bit raspy, less smooth than usual.

'Did it… hurt? A lot?'

'I always wondered why the Dark Lord didn't recruit mediwizards as torturers,' Malfoy said. 'Not that I ever told him – given his fits of temper, the idea could easily have backfired. But I was dead right.'

Hermione bit her lip. There'd been more for the matron to heal than just his wrist. She'd suspected as much, now she was sure. 'She didn't hurt you deliberately, did she?'

'Deliberately, yes, insofar as she knows exactly what she's doing. But no more than necessary.' He shifted a little and bit back a moan. 'I wish I had the strength to tell you exactly what I think of your… your bossiness, but…' His eyes fell shut.

'Think of it this way: if you don't raise your hand at me, I don't want it to be because you can't, but because you don't want to.'

'Is that supposed to be Gryffindor logic?'

'No, Granger logic. Now listen, Mr Malfoy. I quite like this room, but what I've seen so far of the rest of this house is… well, not to my taste.'

'Really?' He smirked. 'And you seemed so enamoured of the carpet when you came to visit a few months ago!'

Hermione stared. 'I wasn't aware you did tasteless.'

'Attribute it to my current state of agony. Miss Granger, I don't mean to be rude, but do you think we might postpone the topics of house redecoration and in-laws? I'm not sure I feel up to it.'

'You want me to leave.'

'Somehow I'm under the impression that being quiet is not one of your strong points.'

'Would that be a roundabout way of telling me you want me to just sit here and admire your shoulders?'

His eyes flew open. 'That was certainly not what I meant to imply.'

'They're nice though.' Hermione eyed him critically. 'I mean,' she added, blushing, 'if I have to have sex with a man, I'd rather he was good-looking.'

'So you like what you see?' he purred.

Bastard. She tried to appear aloof but wasn't quite sure she'd succeeded. 'I believe I already said your shoulders are nice. And you seem to be quite hairless. I like that too.'

The lines on his face were evidence of the pain he was in, but he grinned nonetheless. 'Care to see more?'

'Don't you dare go all exhibitionist on me!' she snapped, half laughing, half angry. 'I'll see you tomorrow, Mr Malfoy. Have a speedy recovery!'

* * *

Due to the shielding spell the Law Enforcers had put up, which neatly diverted any incoming owls to the post office in Diagon Alley, Hermione read Harry and Ron' s letters more than twenty-four hours after they'd sent them.

They thought she owed them an apology.

Hermione thought she owed them an explanation. They were friends after all, although Malfoy had likely hit the nail on the head by guessing the relationship might have become somewhat unilateral. Anyway, she wasn't willing to let seven years of friendship go down the drain, and so she meant at least to give it a try. If the boys were unable or unwilling to see reason – or at least that part of her reasons she was willing to tell them about – she'd let them stew for a while. Sooner or later, they'd realize she was neither nuts nor a gold digger. They were her friends, they'd try to understand.

So she agreed to meet up with them at Grimmauld Place, at eight p.m. on the day of her second encounter with Malfoy. It had been an exhausting day; first the discussions with McGonagall and Pomfrey, then the conflicting emotions caused by her soon-to-be husband, then sorting through the owl post she'd received, and finally another confrontation with her parents. Hermione wasn't quite sure whether her temper was going to hold, but felt that, if she further procrastinated the inevitable meeting with Harry and Ron, the two would have got so caught up in their own tangled web of theories that she'd need a machete to get through to them.

She Apparated to Grimmauld Place with good intentions firmly in place: she wasn't going to fly off the handle; she was going to listen to them no matter how stupid, immature or outrageous their arguments. She was going to be patient. She could practically feel an aura of sainthood emanating from her.

Much to her surprise, the boys weren't alone. Ginny had accompanied them, and at first Hermione wasn't quite pleased to see her.

The two girls had never been friends, though not because Ginny hadn't tried. Ginny _had_ tried, but Hermione had always been slightly exasperated by her unrestrained hero-worshipping of Harry. During her sixth (and Ginny's fifth) school year, Ginny's attitude had undergone a radical change, and there might have been a chance at friendship during the following year, hadn't Hermione been on the run. Now that the two had started a relationship, Hermione half-suspected Ginny might have come to protect and defend her boyfriend. She'd always viewed the younger girl as a Molly-in-the-making and knew what the mother was capable of when it came to defending her loved ones.

As it turned out, Ginny's agenda was nothing like that.

When Hermione opened the door to the library, Ginny stopped in the middle of what looked suspiciously like a harangue, rose from the couch and came to embrace Hermione. 'I told them,' she said matter-of-factly, 'that we'd give them exactly fifteen minutes. That's more than enough for the facts, and we don't need any debates. Then they'll have to get themselves off to the pub or wherever, so we can talk.'

'Erm…' Hermione felt slightly overwhelmed. 'That's fine by me, I mean, did they agree?' She looked at her two friends. They were bearing decidedly sheepish expressions. 'Is that all right with you?'

'Not really,' Harry said. 'But Ginny has a way of explaining things… And I guess you've got enough on your plate, so maybe it's better if we don't argue.' He elbowed Ron.

At a glare from his sister, Ron said, 'Yeah, I'd just like to know why. And Ginny's right, you're probably having a difficult time of it as it is. We don't want to make it any harder for you.'

Secretly envying Ginny, because the girl had obviously found the Hidden Maturity Release Button she'd been searching for years, Hermione gave them a grateful smile. 'That's incredibly kind of you. And very generous, really.' She went over to Ron and put a hand on his shoulder. 'I'm sorry, Ron, I didn't mean for you to get the news from the media. But Kingsley only gave me twenty-four hours to deliberate, and I had to think of my parents first.'

Harry stared at her, eyes wide behind his glasses. 'Twenty-four hours? I thought… well, we thought…' He glanced helplessly at Ron.

'After our argument three weeks ago,' Ron said, 'I thought all this had been your idea. You know, you were going on and on about reforms, and so I was sure…' He fell silent under Hermione's vicious glare.

'You never listened to me, did you?' she said, attempting to keep her voice down. 'Yes, maybe I'm a bit boring when I go on and on, but I was talking about reforms, you big dolt, not about going back to the Middle Ages! I don't know if it was Kingsley's idea or somebody else's, but I first heard about it two days ago. Kingsley invited me to a private meeting and literally blackmailed me: it was either marriage or… well you know.'

The boys looked at each other, visibly trying to digest the news. 'But why Malfoy?' Harry finally asked, his voice small. 'Kingsley can't have forced you to – he didn't, did he?'

'No, he didn't. He believed to the last second that I was going to choose Ron. Didn't you see his face?'

'I saw mum and dad's faces,' Ron muttered. 'That was quite enough, believe me.'

'I can imagine. I'm sorry, really.'

'Why Malfoy?' Harry repeated.

She knew they were disappointed, even though their suspicions – and how little did they know her if they'd really believed that load of bollocks – hadn't proved to be true. She also knew that she couldn't tell them, because her plan was so huge and so secret that she hardly dared touch it with her own mind. 'I'm afraid,' she finally said, 'that you'll have to trust me on this. I know you want to know more, but I can't tell you. I'm not under Imperius, and I'm not planning to be the next Dark Lord. I hope you love me enough to trust me.'

'Do you…' Ron cleared his throat. 'Do you fancy him?'

Quickly suppressing the fleeting image of a pair of broad shoulders under a blindingly white duvet, Hermione shook her head, curls a-fly. 'No. I don't fancy him, and he hasn't slipped me a love potion. And, just to save you the trouble of asking, I'm not bonkers. I've never been more rational in my whole life.'

The two shook their heads, clearly not convinced of her sanity. Then Harry said, 'You did read the law, didn't you? You know you have to…' He blushed violently. 'You know.'

Hermione rolled her eyes at him. 'Of course I know I have to sleep with him. It's part of the deal. And it doesn't have to be more than once.'

'The question is, do you want it to be more than once,' Ron growled.

'You're not jealous, are you?' She couldn't believe the guy. They'd had sex twice, shortly after the Battle of Hogwarts, and it had been less than satisfying for both of them. They'd never mentioned it again, and neither of them had given any indication of wanting to repeat the experience. They hadn't even kissed, let alone touched in meaningful ways.

The look Ron shot her was so full of reproach and insecurity that the coin dropped. He wasn't jealous, he was afraid Malfoy was going to do a better job than he. Well, she wasn't going to dignify that with an answer. 'Anyway,' she said, fully aware of the false cheer she was trying to convey, 'I hope we'll remain friends all the same. And you must come to the wedding.'

'You definitely _are_ bonkers,' Harry said after a while. 'You can't seriously expect us to watch you getting married to that monster!'

'Well, I'm coming, if you invite me,' Ginny broke her silence. 'I love weddings.'

That had evidently been the last straw for her boyfriend. 'You're not going to that wedding!' he exploded. 'I forbid it!'

'I don't remember asking your permission,' Ginny snapped. 'Your fifteen minutes are up, anyway. Off you go, both of you. I've got to talk to Hermione.'

When the door had closed behind the two boys, Hermione flung herself into a chair. 'I'd never have thought I'd say something so clichéd, but I could use a drink now.'

With a devious grin, Ginny reached into her pocket. 'Your wish is my command. Look what Auntie Ginny has got for you.'

'You'll never cease to surprise me. Is that really firewhisky?'

'I thought we'd need something strong.' She restored the miniaturized bottle to its full size and did the same with a few packets of peanuts and crisps. A pitcher of water and four glasses were summoned from the kitchen. 'We don't want to get completely sozzled,' Ginny explained as she filled their water glasses. She handed Hermione a generous amount of whisky. 'Now spill the beans.'

Hermione took a grateful sip and let it burn down her throat. 'I admit that I really need to talk, but I can't tell you the whole truth.'

'Too dangerous?' Ginny asked around a mouthful of peanuts.

'That too, maybe. Too crazy. I'm just afraid of talking about it before it's fully formed in my head.'

'So you have a plan.'

'Oh yes. I have a plan. And as I already told Harry and Ron, it's nothing bad or dark.'

'I know.' Ginny took a sip of whisky. Seeing Hermione's questioning look, she said, 'Don't forget that I've experienced Dark and Bad. I know how it feels. So I know you're planning nothing of the kind. I suppose you mean to overturn the Marriage Law, don't you?'

'N-not exactly.' Hermione avoided the inquisitive green eyes.

'Well, I'd be very grateful if you did. I suppose you need money for what you're planning, hence Malfoy.'

'You're too clever for your own good,' Hermione said, laughing. Then she suddenly became serious. 'Good heavens, Ginny, I completely forgot! You're a pureblood – have you already been chosen?'

'I'm only seventeen, silly. So I've got one year of freedom left. That's why I said I'd be grateful if you somehow managed to have that stupid law repealed, because I honestly have other ideas for my life.'

'Couldn't you get married to Harry right away?'

'Of course I could, if my parents gave their permission. But, as mum said, is there any guarantee that I'll be happy with Harry? So why not wait for some fat, middle-aged idiot to come and snap me up?' She angrily wiped away her tears.

'Ginny, that's dreadful!'

'Yes, isn't it? So now you probably understand why I'm not against you marrying Malfoy. Besides…' She leaned forward and winked. 'He's really rather gorgeous.'

Glad that her quickening heartbeat was audible only to her, Hermione reluctantly agreed. 'He's attractive, yes.'

'I used to fancy the pants off Draco for some time. To be honest, I would've jumped his bones, if I hadn't been sure he'd reject me, the git. How did Malfoy react? Or haven't you seen him yet?'

Hermione gave a brief account of her two visits to Malfoy Manor.

'Can't say I pity him,' Ginny commented. 'But you're of course right. Leaving him in pain like this was a bad thing. So he's in prime shape again?'

'I suppose he'll be fully recovered by tomorrow.'

'Shame, really, that you'll have to wait three weeks,' Ginny said.

Upon Hermione's indignant protest, she merely shrugged and changed to the less controversial topic of bridal wear.


	4. Chapter 4

PART 4

One week later, Hermione was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

Harry and Ron's newfound maturity had been nothing but a show, and they'd each sent her a letter on the day after they'd met. Ron's orthography and punctuation were better than Harry's, but his insults were infinitely worse. She could've coped with the insults, but what really hurt was the ridiculously stupid pretext of "being Aurors in training and therefore forbidden to associate with Death Eaters or their spouses". Hermione's outbreak of fury kept the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad busy for a few hours.

The situation with her parents hadn't improved much after she'd forced them to invite Malfoy for dinner. He'd surprised her by suggesting that he wear Muggle clothes for the occasion, but she'd objected on the grounds that her parents expected her to get married to a wizard, and the man sitting at their table therefore ought to look like a wizard. When her mother had nearly fainted with fright at the sight of the black-cloaked, platinum-haired male on her doorstep, Hermione had admitted that she ought to have heeded his advice. Her father had seethed with anger but refrained from hitting a man who looked dangerous even before he'd drawn his wand. Thanks to the joint efforts of all four participants, dinner had been tolerable if chilly, but when Malfoy had left, there had been another nasty scene. Hermione had spent the night crying and hugging a very unwilling Crookshanks.

Salvation came after two more miserable days of opening hate mail and silent treatment by her parents. As so often, the saving angel had chosen a rather unexpected disguise.

'You look terrible,' Malfoy said, when she Apparated to the Manor two weeks after their engagement. 'We'll have to do something about that, or you may just as well wear a black dress for the wedding. At least it would match your facial expression.'

'Thanks a bunch.' Good heavens, she was pathetic! People merely had to look at her askance these days, and already the tears started to come. Malfoy's remark, certainly not meant to make her cry, provoked a veritable flood of tears.

He led her to one of the cosier downstairs rooms, put her on a sofa and left. Two minutes later he was back with a cup of strong tea and a slice of chocolate cake, carried by a demure house elf. A handkerchief was dangled in front of her face, and when Hermione had blown her nose, she saw that he was holding a small vial containing a bright blue potion. 'What's that?' she asked.

'Just in case hormones are playing a part in your emotional outburst,' he said. His visible embarrassment cheered her up immediately.

'That's very thoughtful, thank you. But it isn't hormones. It's just… It's all getting a bit too much, I guess. Why do people even think they have a right to tell me what I'm doing is wrong?' she said between two bites of cake. 'I think I've proved sufficiently that I'm neither a Dark Witch, nor the reincarnation of Morgan Le Fey, or a galleon-digging slut. I'm aware that marrying you was a bit of an unexpected choice, but it's my choice, for fuck's sake! They have no right to judge me.'

'Welcome to Pariahstan,' Malfoy said calmly.

'At least you deserved it!'

He bowed. 'Thank you for reminding me.'

'I didn't mean it that way. But given your past, it's understandable that people don't strew your path with roses.'

'I never claimed it wasn't understandable. You're the one who wants to be everybody's darling.'

'I don't…' She stared at him, fork midway between the plate and her mouth. 'That's not true!'

'No? If it isn't, tell me why a few letters, admittedly nasty letters, but still nothing but letters, are able to throw you completely off balance.'

'It's not the letters.'

'If it isn't the letters, what is it? Cold feet? Pre-marriage jitters?'

'Of course not,' she said gruffly. When she'd polished off the last crumb of cake, she put the plate back on the hovering tray. 'It's because the people I thought were close to me don't understand me. And not enough with that, they outright reject me! That's what makes me cry.'

'Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm not sure you understand yourself. How should other people understand you?'

'You're being very helpful.'

'So you think I'm wrong?'

N-no. Just not very nice.'

'If you wanted nice, you ought to have bound yourself to somebody else.'

'I'm sure you could be nice if you wanted to. People always go on about how charming you are, not that I've noticed.'

Poppy Pomfrey seemed to have done an excellent job – he was out of his chair and sitting next to her in a second. 'You want me to be charming?' he purred.

There was a glint in his eyes that made her scoot back a few inches. 'I'm not quite sure.' Her heart started to beat faster when he took her hand and kissed her fingertips, one by one.

'Better?' he asked.

'N-not exactly.' She stared at his hand, mesmerized. 'Aren't we supposed to be at your mother's place' – her eyes got caught by his, and she swallowed – 'very soon?'

'Very,' he confirmed gravely and released her hand, but not before having pressed his lips to her palm. 'You'd better go and freshen up, or I'll never hear the end of it.'

* * *

Having to meet her future mother-in-law had cost Hermione at least as many hours of sleep as all the other adversities she'd had to deal with. From the few words Malfoy had said about his mother, she'd gathered that they had a rather troubled relationship, but that he was also very fond of her. Somehow, the Mrs Malfoy she had imagined – and she'd done that quite often, playing the meet-the-scary-mother scenario in her mind over and over, and it hadn't got any better with each repetition – was an older, sterner version of the recently deceased Narcissa Malfoy. She'd pictured a tall, impressive lady of about seventy years of age, with a severe, narrow face and high cheekbones, the same icy grey eyes as her son and manners so impeccable that Lucius Malfoy would seem like an uncouth prole next to her.

It seemed that any preconceptions she was forming these days, whether good or bad, were doomed to be shipwrecked on the rocks of reality.

The curvy, grey-haired lady with the piercing, cornflower-blue eyes who came to greet them was nothing like she had imagined. She wasn't tall either. And her hair hadn't been subdued to perfection; it wasn't as frizzy as Hermione's, but still qualified as wild. Mrs Malfoy was… Hermione couldn't think of a more fitting word than "squishy". Not motherly, because that reminded her of Molly Weasley, and Molly was the last person she wanted to think of right now. But she was the kind of woman that exuded warmth and safety.

Just what I need, Hermione thought when Mrs Malfoy drew her into a spontaneous embrace. And she promptly started to cry.

'Oh dear,' said Mrs Malfoy. 'Lucius, you've been engaged for a mere two weeks, and the poor girl is already crying her eyes out? What _have_ you done?'

'I assure you it's not my fault, mother.'

'That's what you always say, and in the end it always is.' She patted Hermione's back. 'There, there child. Don't take it to heart. He's really a nice boy, but very good at hiding it, most of the time.' She carefully loosened Hermione's death grip on her neck. 'Let me have a look at you – holy stars! Lucius, she's just a child!'

'May I remind you that she chose me, not the other way round,' he replied stiffly.

'That's true. Well, Hermione – your name is Hermione, isn't it? – maybe we ought to sit down and talk. Talking usually helps, especially if combined with hot chocolate. Lucius, be a good boy and tell Pugsley to prepare his special brew.'

More embarrassed than she'd ever been in her life, Hermione let herself be guided into the sitting room. To say it was cluttered would have been an understatement. It was utterly chaotic.

'I'm sorry,' she said once she felt she could speak without constantly hiccupping. 'I've just been under so much stress, it really wasn't Mr. Malfoy's fault.'

'Mr Mal- you mean Lucius? Why don't you call him Lucius?'

'I don't think he'd like that very much.'

'I'm afraid that's beside the point. Would you feel more comfortable calling him Lucius?'

Hermione pondered this. 'I suppose I would,' she finally said. 'But he's very, you know, forbidding. I don't know him all that well either.'

'In that case,' Mrs Malfoy said with a bright smile, 'you've come to the right person. I can tell you all about him.'

'I'd be immensely grateful if you refrained from being too indiscreet, mother,' said the wizard in question, who'd just entered the room.

'Nonsense! You're going to be man and wife, share a bed – telling Hermione a few anecdotes is hardly indiscreet.'

'Please, mother, no anecdotes.'

'Photos, then. Would you like to see my pictures, Hermione?'

'I think he wouldn't like that very much, either,' Hermione pointed out. The pained look on Malfoy's face spoke volumes.

'My dear child – yes, thank you, Pugsley, put it right there. My dear child, Lucius is going to walk all over you, unless you develop a bit of spunk.' She took Hermione's hand in both of hers.

'I'm usually quite spunky,' Hermione replied, relishing in the warmth of her grip, 'But I seem to have used it all up recently. Please don't think I'm a wimp, because I'm not. It's just that… as I said. It's all been too much.'

'And you,' Mrs Malfoy said, turning to look at her son, 'are still calling her Miss Granger, or so it seems. What's the matter with you young people? You're Lucius, she's Hermione, for heaven's sake. What's so complicated about that?'

'Nothing, mother. But the circumstances of our betrothal didn't seem to warrant-'

'Hermione,' his mother interrupted him. 'She's Hermione, do you understand?'

'Yes, mother.'

She smiled and pointed at the cup the house elf had brought. 'You see? It's as easy as that. Now drink your chocolate, while I go hunting for the photo albums. Pugsley? Pugsley, I need to find my pictures!'

'She's wonderful,' Hermione said when Mrs Malfoy had left in search of the pictures her son evidently hoped she'd never find. 'I would never have thought… She's lovely and utterly adorable.'

That won her his first genuine smile. 'Narcissa loathed her.'

'I can imagine. She ruffles people, and Nar- I mean, your wife probably didn't like being ruffled. The few times I saw her, she struck me as supremely unruffled.'

He bowed his head. 'A very accurate analysis. I am glad mother likes you. So you'll have somewhere to take refuge when we quarrel.'

'Do you think we will?'

'Knowing you, it seems inevitable.'

Hermione bristled. 'You've known me for two weeks! It's not fair, judging me after two weeks. Besides, it takes two to quarrel!'

'I agree. And I'm not known for my particularly placid temper.'

'Placid temper?' his mother said as she re-entered the room. 'Lucius, don't get the poor girl's hopes up. You're one of the most quick-tempered people I know!' Her hunt had obviously been successful: Pugsley the house elf was staggering under his load of five photo albums.

'Mother, please…' His right foot was drumming an impatient rhythm on the parquet floor. 'It's her first visit, I'm sure Miss Granger-'

'Hermione!' his mother interrupted sharply.

'Hermione isn't very interested in your photos.'

'I'd really like to see them,' Hermione said.

'Very well.' He got up. 'I'll go and have a look at the stables.'

'Lucius, you know perfectly well that there are no stables on this estate. But if you want to sulk in peace, do so by all means.'

* * *

Mrs Malfoy had extended an invitation for Hermione to stay with her until the wedding, and her future daughter-in-law had gladly accepted. Crookshanks, her books and her few other belongings had been transferred on the next morning to her temporary home; when she'd told her parents that she was going to move in with her mother-in-law, the sky had cleared quite quickly and inexplicably. So maybe there was hope. Her mum and dad had even agreed to come to visit. And her dad had renewed his promise to give her away.

'Real Muggles?' Mrs Malfoy asked excitedly, and for the fifth time. Hermione's parents were due that afternoon, three days after she'd moved in.

'Absolutely genuine.' Hermione gave the tablecloth an experimental tug. 'Have you never seen Muggles before? They're quite like us, only they can't do magic.'

'I'm a pureblood, my dear, and we don't get to meet many Muggles. And once I was married to Lucius's father…' Hermione noticed that her hands were trembling.

'It was your husband, wasn't it, who got Lucius to believe all that Mudblood nonsense.'

'Yes, it was.' The old lady looked out of the window. Her cheerful energy suddenly seemed to have left her. 'I should have done something, sent the boy away, stood up to Abraxas…'

'I'm sure it wasn't as easy as it sounds,' Hermione said cautiously.

'Not in those days. I was very young – just like you, I'd married at age eighteen, and…' She sighed. 'I adored my husband. It took me a long time to recognize he was wrong, and when I did, it was too late.'

Hermione had seen all the photos. 'He was extremely handsome. It's understandable that you adored him.'

'Lucius is his spitting image,' the old lady said with a wicked smile. 'I hope – no, I don't hope you'll adore him as unconditionally as I did Abraxas, because that kind of love only leads to trouble. But I hope you'll love him as much as he deserves.'

A furtive glance at her watch told Hermione that they had one hour until her parents arrived. Besides, they were always late. 'Mrs Malfoy,' she said, 'I think we need to talk. Now.' They sat down on one of the many squashy sofas. Crookshanks was snoozing on the windowsill behind them. 'I'm going to tell you something I haven't told anybody yet. It's a secret, and you must keep it.' She felt the tears coming up, but fought them down. 'Nobody has ever shown me as much kindness and understanding as you, and I want to give you something in return. I'm not sure you're going to like it, but you're a person I trust unconditionally.'

As if on cue, a cloud inched across the sun, and the room darkened.

'I don't know who masterminded the Marriage Law,' Hermione began. 'I'd split up with my boyfriend and gone to live with my parents about three weeks before it entered into force.'

She told Mrs Malfoy everything. The way Shacklebolt had left her no choice, her wish to change the wizarding world, her decision to choose Lucius, because he was the only one who had the necessary money and maybe would even help her, given the right incentive, her troubles with her parents and friends, the hateful letters, her concerns for Ginny and many other wizards and witches she knew. She told her about the year on the run, her feelings for Ron that she'd mistaken for love.

'I'm so sorry,' she concluded. 'I feel as if I'd betrayed you in the most horrible way. You love your son and want to see him married to a woman who loves him. I'm not sure… I won't exclude the possibility, but right now I don't love him. Most of the time I'm not sure that I even like him. We are worlds apart, not only because of the age difference. The only thing I can promise you is that I'll treat him like a decent human being.'

'You haven't betrayed me,' Mrs Malfoy said after a long silence. 'I'm neither blind nor deaf. If there was love between you, I'd have sensed it.' She drew a deep breath. 'Don't believe that I'm blind to my son's faults, because I'm not. I had to watch his descent into evil. I had to stand by, helplessly, as he became the very opposite of a decent human being. He came to me when he was released from Azkaban, and I very nearly chased him away. He's my only child, you see, and he was such a wonderful boy. Then his father took him in hand… They went to secret meetings… They'd never got on too well with each other, and at first I couldn't believe my luck. I was so happy, seeing them together, father and son, finally together. Finally sharing something – I didn't care, it didn't matter what it was, so long as they were finally able to be in the same room for more than a minute without a row breaking out.

'I wanted him to marry for love. I'd have welcomed any girl, pureblood, Muggleborn, even Muggle. Any girl, provided she loved him.' She gave Hermione a teary smile. 'Of course it wasn't to be. His father chose the bride, and who should he pick but that… that cold fish? I hated the girl the moment I laid eyes on her, because she was completely empty. Lucius didn't like her either, but he was already twenty-two and too involved with Voldemort and his minions. I couldn't reach him anymore, he'd gone completely crazy with his hunger for power and more power – all to outshine his father of course, that had always been the driving force… When Draco was born, I hoped with all my heart that he'd love his child. I suppose he did love him, in a way, as far as he was capable of loving. I didn't see much of Draco – Narcissa saw to it, and Lucius didn't care, he was much too wrapped up in his schemes of becoming even richer and more powerful. But I knew that he was repeating his father's errors.

'There was a point… A few years after Abraxas had died, and I'd finally realized what was really going on, there was a point when I hoped Lucius would die too. He and his cold-hearted bitch of a wife. So that I could at least take care of my grandson. Give him the love he so obviously needed. Make him understand that he was a young boy, not a miniature version of his father. You're the same age as Draco, so you know what happened. In hindsight, it was a blessing in disguise. If Lucius hadn't gone to prison, who knows what would've become of him.' She took Hermione's hand. 'You trusted me with a secret, and so I'll give you one in return. The night Lucius was released from Azkaban, he came here. Right from the prison door, dirty, smelly, emaciated, half-crazy. I'm sure you can imagine. As I said, I almost chased him off my doorstep. But then I thought he's my only son, I can't turn him away. So I took him in – we didn't have much time, because Voldemort was expecting him.

'I fed him, not that he could eat much, he was too exhausted. And then I held him, and he told me about the Dementors. He told me that he'd seen the error of his ways, and that he wanted nothing more than to leave, hide on the other side of the globe. He couldn't do it, though. He had to think of his wife and son, and of his mother, so he had to go back. He wanted to protect us all, and so he went back. That was brave, wasn't it?'

'It was,' Hermione said. 'Completely misguided, but brave. So you think there's hope?'

'The important thing,' Mrs Malfoy said, 'is whether you think there's hope.'

* * *

On the day before her wedding, Hermione went back to her parents' house. Not to spend the night, as her mum would've wanted – after a very successful afternoon tea at Mrs Malfoy's house, her parents had warmed considerably to her marriage plans, but Hermione feared there might still be last-minute quibbles and so she'd chosen to embark on her marital journey from the safe haven of her mother-in-law's cluttered home. Mrs Granger had taken the afternoon off work, in order to go through the house with a fine comb and locate any possessions her daughter might want to take with her. It was a rather meagre pretext, and Hermione was sure her mum had a hidden agenda, most probably finding out more about her relationship with Lucius and giving her useful advice.

But, as Mrs Malfoy had pointed out, she was only a little over eighteen and about to get married to a man twenty-five years her senior. Given the circumstances that had led to the engagement, it was only natural that her mother should be worried, even if she hadn't known that the groom had tried to kill the bride more than once in the past. In the end, Hermione had conceded the point and decided that she'd go and listen to whatever her mother had to say. She didn't think her mother could possibly have any misgivings she hadn't had herself, and thus was highly unlikely to spring any last-minute surprises on her.

The afternoon passed more peacefully than Hermione had expected. It seemed that the Grangers had discussed the topic at length and come to the conclusion that, since their daughter was a) a legal adult and hence free to make her own choices and b) obviously dead set on marrying her ex-Death Eater, they'd give her their unconditional support. Mrs Granger told her as much, and the two women ended up hugging each other and imbibing more alcohol than they'd originally intended.

'So you're going to become a fucking capitalist,' Mrs Ganger said giggling.

'You and dad are fucking capitalists, too, or else you'd give people free implants.'

'True.' Mrs Granger poured herself another glass of wine. 'But we're merely well off, whereas you…' She frowned at her daughter. 'Do you know how much he's got? Or merely that he's filthy rich?'

This got Hermione thinking. 'To tell you the truth, I merely know he's filthy rich. Well, "know" might be a bit exaggerated. Everybody says he's got a shitload of money.'

'What if he hasn't?'

So much for her mother not springing surprise questions at her. 'I've no idea… I guess I could sell his, well our, estate – must be worth a fortune.'

'Probably entailed to his son,' her mother slurred. 'Old-fashioned aristo-plutocrats, the lot of them. Wouldn't be surprised.'

'Well,' Hermione said bracingly, 'I'm sure he isn't poor. As for the rest, I'll just have to see. But I'm beginning to regret that I bought a twenty-thousand-galleon wedding gown.'

'If it all goes tits up,' her mother reassured her, 'we'll buy the gold thread off you, there must be a ton of it on that gown, and use it for fillings.'

The question didn't stop niggling Hermione, though, and when they were done, she made up her mind to pay Lucius a short visit. He probably was of the "spend it, don't talk about it" persuasion, but if she'd made a dreadful mistake, she'd rather know as soon as possible. Mentally chiding herself for her shoddy research, she went up the path to the entrance of the house that was to become her home the next day. A white peacock screeched at her, but she told it to piss off. To her surprise, it did.

It had occurred to her that she might be interrupting a boisterous stag night (she'd refused Ginny's suggestion of a hen night, but that didn't mean Lucius didn't feel the need to get drunk on his last evening of freedom), but the house was quiet.

Obviously she'd drunk a bit more than she thought, because she impulsively kissed Lucius's cheek when he came to meet her. 'You're drunk,' he stated after discreetly sniffing her breath.

'Just tipsy. I was with mum.'

'Yours or mine?'

'Mine.' She smiled up at him, grateful for the strong arm she could hang on to. 'She asked me if you're rich.'

'In the hopes that my money would make up what I lack in morals?'

Hermione giggled. 'You'd have to be very rich.'

'Well, I am.' He lowered her into a chair. 'Would you like some sobering potion, or do you prefer to remain in your state of alcohol-induced bliss?'

'No potion, thanks.' When he straightened up and was about to sit down opposite her, she held on to his hand. 'Very rich?'

'Hermione, this is the first time you're so interested in my money. I never thought you'd marry me for being such a nice bloke – as a matter of fact, I would've strongly objected to that – but this sudden obsession is slightly unsettling.'

She kept holding his hand and stroking along his fingers. They were nice fingers, long, well manicured and rather strong-looking. Then she remembered how he'd made her feel when he'd kissed her fingertips not so long ago, and bent down to do the same to him. At his hiss of indrawn breath she looked up. 'It doesn't hurt anymore, does it?'

His face had taken on a faint rosy tinge. 'No,' he replied, giving her a strange look and one of his half-smiles, 'it doesn't hurt anymore. If you're trying to distract me, you're doing a very nice job, by the way.'

'Distract you from what?' Hermione asked, circling the pad of his thumb with a gentle fingertip.

'From the question about my worldly possessions you raised not five minutes ago. Merlin's bloody – what are you doing, woman?' He withdrew his hand rather abruptly.

'Admiring your hands. They're very nice. And clean.'

Lucius perched on the armrest of her chair and cupped her chin, raising her head so she had to look at him. 'You really are an innocent, aren't you,' he said after a while.

'I already told you I'm _not_ a virgin,' she replied. She tried to free herself, but he didn't let go. Hermione felt herself blush. 'I, erm, got some books on the, uh, subject,' she offered.

'You bought naughty books?' Now he was grinning. It suited him, she thought.

'I suppose you could call them naughty, although I rather like to think of them as...' Under his unwavering gaze, her face went even hotter. 'Technical manuals,' she finished weakly. The chaste kiss he pressed on her lips caught her entirely unaware. 'I didn't want to disappoint you,' she blurted.

'My dear girl' – he rose and went to sit opposite her – 'if there should be any disappointment in the bedroom, and I strongly doubt there will be, it would be entirely my fault.'

Hermione pondered this. She was still feeling quite tipsy; pondering wasn't easy and certainly didn't progress along the straight paths her mind was normally wont to follow. 'You seem very sure of yourself,' she finally said.

'One of us has to be.'

'Mmh, that's probably right. But I'm still feeling quite nervous.'

'About the wedding night,' he inquired, leaning forward with his elbows propped on his knees, 'or about the whole marriage?'

'Both. Definitely both.' She shucked off her shoes and pulled up her legs, curling deeper into the chair. 'Do you think the marriage stands a better chance, if the sex is good?'

'We only have to do it once,' Lucius pointed out.

Hermione frowned at him. 'You're being very strange. Don't you like sex? Or is it me? Don't you find me attractive at all?'

'Oh, I certainly do like sex, and you're a very attractive girl. I was merely reminding you that, in case you don't like it, we don't have to repeat the experience.'

'So you can go off and cheat on me with some... some cheap slut,' she huffed.

'Hermione, I assure you that I have never required the services of _cheap_ sluts. As for cheating on you, I'm afraid that won't be possible.' Seeing her puzzled expression, he continued, 'The Marriage Law isn't all I agreed to obey to, when I put my signature on that list. There's an annex stipulating that I have to remain faithful to my wife for as long as we're married.'

'And if you don't?'

His face hardened. 'The consequences are the same as for refusing to abide by the law.'

Suddenly sober, Hermione sat up straight. 'What? He didn't show me the annex, that buggering bastard!'

'Would you have changed your mind if he had?'

Her shoulders slumped. 'No, I suppose I wouldn't. I just think it's very, very unfair. There'll be many marriages of convenience, not every Muggleborn is lucky enough to be in love with a pureblood. And if people aren't compatible... It's disgusting! You can't condemn people to wanking for fifteen years!'

'Don't forget,' Lucius said, visibly fighting his rising hilarity, 'that there also has to be a child. So it's just eight or nine years' worth of, erm, wanking, at the most. In any case, please do not feel obliged to offer me pity fucks. I don't respond well to pity, and even less well to charity sex.'

Hermione shook her head. 'No, I wouldn't do that. I mean, I do have some self-respect, you know? We'll just have to make it work. It's a good think I bought the books,' she added, brightening. 'Oh, and I've meant to ask you for ages: What about Draco? Has he already signed?'

Brow darkening, Lucius shook his head. 'He'll turn eighteen in two months' time. And there is nothing...' His right hand balled into a fist so tight that his knuckles turned white.

Choirs of angels began to sing in Hermione's head. She had calculated correctly! Lucius Malfoy _did_ have a strong interest in having that law repealed! He certainly wouldn't want to see his son and heir snapped up by some greedy, calculating girl. Or woman – she shuddered at the thought of Dolores Umbridge getting her pudgy fingers on Draco. He was a silly ponce, but getting married to Umbridge would be a worse punishment than a lifetime in Azkaban.

She was about to talk to Lucius about her plan, but thought better of it. Let the wedding night come and go, she mused, and wait until you've got a clearer idea of what you're going to do. Wait until you get a feeling of how the marriage is going to go. If the prognosis is favourable, make your offer. He's being nice right now, but he's Lucius Malfoy. It might all be a show, and keeping a hidden trump card up your sleeve is probably a very wise move.

So Hermione merely expressed her hope that Draco – who had proved immune even to his grandmother's attempts to cajole him into attending the wedding – might be chosen by someone suitable, when the time came, and took her leave. The ceremony was scheduled for 11 a.m., and she'd have to get up early.


	5. Chapter 5

PART 5

The bonding ceremony, the wording of which had faithfully repeated all the gruesome consequences threatening infidelity, untimely divorce and the unwillingness to consummate the marriage or produce offspring, had taken place in the grand ballroom of Malfoy Manor, in the presence of a hundred hand-picked guests. The weather was lovely, and so the following reception for five hundred guests took place in the park. It was to last till seven p.m., and a formal dinner for the same hundred guests who had witnessed the ceremony was scheduled for half an hour later.

Hermione was rather awed by the way Lucius had planned and organized every last detail, so that everything, from the timely delivery of her bouquet to the guests finding their assigned places, went smoothly and without a hitch.

She'd arrived at the Manor at ten-fifty sharp in the carriage that had been sent by the groom, and climbed the stairs leading to the first floor among the ooh!s and aah!s of the assembled guests. Mr Granger, clad in cutaway and cylinder as befitted the father of the bride, had already been waiting for her at the entrance to the ballroom and swept her down the central aisle where Ginny, her bridesmaid, was practically bouncing with enthusiasm. The groom was decked out in magnificent black, albeit sans cane – later, Hermione felt Lucius's wand securely stored under his left sleeve – and next to him stood Kingsley Shacklebolt, who'd obviously agreed to be Best Man.

In the flurry of nervousness and excitement, Hermione hadn't spotted anyone except the protagonists and was therefore pleasantly surprised as she stood in the greeting line and saw Harry and Ron approach.

Choosing not to comment on Lucius's snort, as she hugged the two boys, she said, 'Thank you for coming. It means a lot to me, and you know it's not just an empty phrase.'

Both nodded; there wasn't more time left for talking, because the newlyweds had another four hundred eighty-three guests to welcome, but Lucius had been kind enough to place the two guests of honour at the same table as the happy couple. Therefore Hermione spent a few pleasant hours with her parents, mother-in-law, Ginny, Harry and Ron. Kingsley who, according to protocol, would've been seated next to her, had to leave as the reception started – he pleaded urgent ministry business, but that was probably a shabby excuse – and nobody was sad to see him leave. He'd done his due by gracing the ceremony with his presence, as Best Man to boot, but considering how the marriage had been brought about in the first place, he'd have made a rather incongruous Cupid.

Glad that the bride and groom weren't required to mingle – the guests were expected to come to their table to engage them in conversation – Hermione leaned back in her chair and applied a discreet cooling charm. 'I swear,' she muttered to Lucius, who was sitting at her left and looking revoltingly cool and sedate, 'that these robes weigh a hundred pounds. They put lightweight charms on them, but they don't seem to help much.'

Lucius briefly touched her shoulder and smiled. 'You're supposed to take off the outer robe when the dance begins, but I think you might do it now.'

Wrinkling her nose, Hermione asked, 'Isn't that a breach of etiquette or something?'

Her mother-in-law, who'd overheard the exchange, bent across Harry to pat her hand. 'You're Mrs Malfoy now, my dear. Which means that whatever you do _is_ etiquette, and the others may go hang themselves.'

'A bit like the queen,' Harry said appreciatively. 'I bet Ron would be very grateful if you slurped your soup.'

The boys snickered, and Lucius muttered something that sounded like Merlin, give me patience. But he got up and gallantly offered his hand to Hermione. The robes were very heavy indeed, and so the gesture wasn't merely symbolic. He practically hoisted her off the chair and helped her to shed the heavy, gold-embroidered overrobes. His fingers brushed her nape in the process, and Hermione felt goose bumps rise on her arms.

A bit irritated at her reaction, she sat down again and decided that the boys had got off way too lightly, considering their traitorous, callous behaviour. 'So what made you change your minds?' she asked Harry. He was seated to her right and had therefore become her main victim by default, not that she pitied him. 'Or was the promise of two free meals enough reason to associate with a Death Eater and his spouse?'

'We, erm, had a visitor,' he said, head bent and sounding much too nonchalant to be entirely convincing.

'A visitor?' she echoed. 'Who exactly came to visit you?'

'Your mother-in-law,' came the muffled reply. The lady in question winked at Hermione. She had excellent hearing, as Hermione had already learned on a different occasion.

'She was rather convincing, I gather?' Hermione said dryly.

'Rather.' With a quick glance at his right-hand neighbour, Harry lowered his voice. 'She's worse than Ginny, Molly _and_ McGonagall put together,' he whispered.

'More effective rather than worse,' Mrs Malfoy said cheerfully, and Harry blushed.

He was saved by the general applause, as a house elf took the disillusionment charm off a dais that had been erected in a cordoned-off area of the park, and a group of about twenty musicians, all soberly dressed in black tailcoats, took their seats on the podium.

Hermione turned to Lucius. 'They're Muggles!' she whispered frantically.

'The best of the best of the London Symphony Orchestra,' he confirmed.

'But... but...' She'd have started biting her nails out of sheer distress, had not Lucius taken her hand in a firm grip and led her to the middle of the lawn.

'They will be obliviated afterwards,' he murmured into her ear while they started dancing the first waltz. 'I'll do it myself, so they won't come to any harm. And once back home, each of them shall find an envelope with an amount of money they won't ask twice about.'

'They're wonderful,' Hermione said, trying to come to terms with the sensation of his body so close to hers. 'The whole wedding is quite wonderful, really. I hadn't imagined it was going to be so stress-free.'

'For some of us,' Lucius replied ominously, and she giggled.

'Has it been very, you know, taxing?'

'I'll survive,' he said. 'Sure in the knowledge that I won't have to do it again for at least fifteen years.'

Hermione frowned up at him. 'You're not planning to divorce me as soon as you can, are you? That wouldn't be a very nice thing to say on our wedding day.'

His hand that was resting on her waist tightened its grip and pulled her a little closer. 'I have no such intention,' he said.

'You'd better not. Or I'll go and burn all my sex books.'

'I'm sure you've already memorized them.' Now he was teasing, she could hear it in his voice.

'I could obliviate myself,' she pointed out.

'Don't forget your body's ability to remember,' Lucius whispered into her ear.

The music ended at that precise moment.

'Poor duckling, you must be awfully hot,' said Mr Granger, when he claimed her for the next dance and saw her flushed face.

Hermione cast another cooling charm, merely to keep her cover, and spent the next thirty minutes shivering in the bright sunlight.

* * *

Having a personal house elf was a new experience. Hermione silently admitted to herself that not having to undo her elaborate coiffure all by herself was definitely an advantage, and unlacing her dress on her own would also have been rather difficult, even with the help of charms. She drew the line at Whiffles – the first elf she'd ever come across whose name didn't end with a y – helping her with her bath. Lucius had kissed her hand and informed her that he was going to join her half an hour later, and so she had plenty of time for a quick bath. But she insisted that she was quite able to wash her hair, and the charm required for her sponge to scrub her back had been among the first she'd ever mastered.

She was done twenty minutes later and, hair dried and tamed and her skin slathered in fragrant oils, she slipped into her night gown.

'This is a bloody effing cliché,' she said to herself as she cast a glance at her image in the mirror. For once, the mirror didn't comment; she supposed it had been charmed to be silent, which was a good thing, seeing as it stood directly opposite the bed. 'Here I am, the trembling bride clad all in white, waiting to be claimed by her Lord and Master. Barbara fucking Cartland would have a field day.'

Unfortunately she really _was_ trembling with nerves. Her hands were cold and clammy, her skin felt hot but underneath she was freezing, her feet and nails had taken on a bluish hue, and her stomach wasn't cooperating either. The nervousness obviously didn't translate into arousal, because what little sensation she had between her legs reminded her of the Siberian tundra. Cold and dry. 'This is going to be a nightmare,' she muttered, pacing up and down in front of the fireplace. 'It's going to be bloody worse than with Ronald bloody Weasley, and I thought that was bad.'

Swearing usually helped, but tonight it seemed useless. Bloody useless.

Maybe her vocabulary was too harmless, she thought, and it was time to upgrade. She was in the middle of creating a really good expletive, when she heard a discreet knock on the door. 'Come in,' she croaked.

Barbara Cartland really would have had a field day. Lucius looked like the embodiment of all wicked counts and highwaymen in pearl grey silk pyjamas under a charcoal grey dressing gown of the same fabric. His hair was loosely pulled back in a ponytail. His feet were naked.

He closed the door soundlessly and stood for a moment, observing her rather more intently than she felt comfortable with. 'You're fretting,' he stated.

'Thanks for pointing that out. Yes, I'm fretting, and I'm cold. Hot too,' she added.

'Mmh. That sounds rather disturbing.' He dug into the pocket of his dressing gown and produced a small vial. 'I thought...' He held it out to her, and she took it.

'If this is a contraceptive, it's unnecessary. I already took it earlier. But thanks.'

Lucius shook his head. 'No. It's... Don't take this the wrong way, Hermione, but I thought a lust potion might help you overcome your nerves.'

He evidently hadn't expected this suggestion to be a success, because he looked rather surprised when she said, 'That's brilliant! I mean...' She cleared her throat. 'Not that you're not terribly attractive and all that, but I'm not sure whether I'm more tense or more tired. So it's probably a very good idea.'

She uncorked the vial and downed the contents in one go, watching her... husband, oh god yes, her _husband_ while he shed his dressing gown.

'I'm glad you're taking this so well,' Lucius said, turning round to face her. 'You ought to ingest – holy dragon's bollocks, you didn't drink _all_ of it?'

Hermione, who was beginning to feel rather more excited at the thought of imminent sex, looked at the empty vial in her palm. 'I thought I was supposed to – how much should I have taken?'

'One small sip. How are you feeling?'

'Horny. Is it dangerous to take an overdose?'

'N-no. Just a little, erm, strenuous for your partner.' He picked up a small silver bell from his bedside table and rang. 'Bunter,' he said to the wizened house elf who promptly appeared, 'go down to the storeroom and get a vial of the Stallion Elixir. Send it to this room – _send_ it, do you understand? You're not to enter this room.'

'If you wish, master,' Bunter the elf said surly.

'Yes, I wish, and now leave!'

Hermione, who had already divested herself of her negligee – the elf had left just in time before the nightgown pooled around her ankles – now made a beeline for Lucius and started hastily to unbutton his pyjama top. 'Stallion Elixir?' she asked, slightly out of breath. Her heartbeat was accelerating. 'Don't you need a lust potion?' She shoved him towards the bed.

'My dear Hermione' - Lucius let himself fall back into the white softness and pulled her with him – 'I'm a male, I haven't had sex for more than two years, and I'm about to fuck a very pretty, not to mention incredibly aroused, eighteen-year-old girl. How much lust potion do you think I need?'

'And why' – she pulled his pyjama pants down over a burgeoning erection – 'do you need the elixir?'

'Because – careful, careful, you don't want to damage it! – because even at my age and with my stamina, I probably won't be up to five hours of uninterrupted shagging. Which is about the amount of time this dose of lust potion needs to wear off.'

* * *

The estimate had been correct, as it turned out. The sun was already rising when Hermione finally felt sated. 'I think,' she purred, snuggling against a very tired-looking Lucius, 'I might be able to sleep now. Unless...' She stroked the inside of his thigh.

'No,' Lucius replied firmly. His voice was sounding a bit raucous. 'No, if you feel like sleeping, we ought to sleep. We have a breakfast scheduled in four hours' time.'

Hermione, whose throat was at least as sore as some other body parts, continued to caress him. She would never have thought that his skin was so soft, marvellous to the touch. 'Why don't we have breakfast in bed?' she suggested. Her voice was sinfully low and smoky; the night had been rather vocal.

'With your parents, my mother and Potter the wonder boy? I don't think so, gratifying though your desire to stay here undoubtedly is.'

'Oh no!' Maybe not all of the potion hadn't worn off yet, because his hand that was casually fondling her breast made her go all tingly again. 'Do we have to? We could stay in bed and pretend we forgot.'

Lucius bent down for a long, deep kiss. 'I'm afraid that isn't an option. Let's get some sleep. We can go back to bed when they're gone, provided you still want to.'

Hermione sighed and stretched luxuriously. 'You bet. The potion may have worn off, but the memories are still there. Although I'm not quite sure it's _really_ worn off...'

'Shut up and sleep, you insufferable brat.'

* * *

Of all the embarrassing experiences she'd had in her eighteen years of life, entering the dining room and greeting the assembled guests undoubtedly took the biscuit. Everybody was smiling knowingly, and Hermione thought she was going to combust spontaneously.

The hundred hand-picked guests had been pared down to a mere twenty for the wedding breakfast; Lucius had mercifully placed his mother to Hermione's right, whereas he was sitting at her left, flanked by Mrs Granger. She also strongly suspected that he'd anticipated Harry and Ron's embarrassment to be even worse than her own, and thus seated them next to his mother and mother-in-law. Motherly affection and terminal embarrassment formed a sufficiently strong barrier for Hermione to be able to eat and drink without unsuitable interruption.

Or almost without, because Mrs Malfoy mustered her daughter-in-law with sparkling eyes and asked, 'Well, how was it?'

She'd kept her voice down, almost at a whisper, but Lucius had heard it nonetheless. 'Mother, will you stop being indiscreet?' he hissed.

'You know I won't. Besides I asked Hermione, and she doesn't seem to mind.'

Lucius merely rolled his eyes and turned to his left, in order to engage Mrs Granger in conversation.

Hermione grinned. 'I'm more or less unable to stand, walk or sit, but it was marvellous,' she whispered.

Mrs Malfoy's eyes went wide. 'Oh dear! He didn't-' She clapped a hand over her mouth.

'No, no. It was all very, erm, consensual. Sensual. Consensual.' Hermione started to giggle and was promptly rewarded with a slight kick from her husband. 'If things go as well in everyday life as they go in the bedroom...'

The diamonds in Mrs Malfoy's earlobes sparkled as she nodded. 'I'll keep my fingers crossed. Have you told him already?'

'No. I thought I'd wait a few days, see how everything works out. If we get on well, I'll tell him everything. If we don't, I'll offer help for Draco in exchange for his money and silence.'

'Don't keep him in suspense for too long. He seems to be very fond of you, my dear.'

'Don't forget that we've been fucking each other sense- erm, sorry. I meant to say that his vision may be clouded by hormones.'

Mrs Malfoy pressed a napkin to her lips to stifle a fit of laughter. 'You're delightfully rude. I like that in a woman. By the way' – she rummaged through her clutch bag – 'I've got a little something for you.' A small, dark blue velvet box was shoved towards Hermione. 'Open it,' she encouraged, eyes alight with anticipation.

'Oh my god!' Momentarily speechless, Hermione stared at the pearl necklace. The pearls were light grey – like Lucius's briefly worn pyjamas, she thought – with a rosy tinge. A tear-shaped diamond, white with a shade of pink, was dangling from the necklace. It had to have at least ten carat and was crystal clear.

'Do you like it?'

'Like it? It's the most bloody beautiful thing I've ever had! Thank you, Mrs Malfoy!'

'Now that I've bribed you with jewels, I think it's time you called me Pandora. Or Dora, if you like.'

'Pandora is nicer. Thank you so much, I'll-'

'Allow me.' Lucius, who had been fondly observing the interlude, fished the necklace from its bed of velvet. He deftly slung it around Hermione's neck and fastened the clasp. 'This and black stockings and nothing else, what do you think?' he whispered in Hermione's ear.

Hermione yelped audibly.

'How clumsy of me,' Lucius said aloud, pretending to disentangle the clasp from a strand of hair. 'Forgive me, my dear.'

He winked at her, and Hermione winked back.

Maybe. Maybe they could become allies as well as lovers.


	6. Chapter 6

PART 6

They'd been married for four days, when Hermione decided to take the plunge.

Lucius had offered to take her on a honeymoon trip to any destination she chose, but she honestly preferred acquainting herself with the house and ample grounds. Besides, there'd been hundreds of congratulatory messages to be answered – a chore they'd shared – she'd discovered the library and wine cellars and gone for long strolls through the grounds.

She'd also started to make the Manor a little more habitable; Lucius hadn't uttered any objections and merely asked her to refrain from pink frills, an abundance of throw cushions, pictures of cute kittens and porcelain atrocities. After reassuring him that she liked none of those things, she'd gone on a rampage through the house, from attic to basement, sure that there had to be loads of hidden treasures. She'd seen Pandora's house, after all, and therefore strongly suspected that the Manor had been a lot cosier before Narcissa had banished anything that didn't go with her colouring or might have conveyed some warmth to her stately home.

Whiffles and a few other elves Hermione had recruited for the task had Apparated back and forth between the attic and the rest of the house, distributing carpets, rugs, paintings and even one or two throw cushions in various rooms. She'd politely but firmly rejected Whiffles' suggestion, though, that the breakfast room would look much nicer with the stuffed Hippogriff they'd found in a corner. Seeing the fire of artistic zeal in the elf's eyes, she'd merely remarked that the beast seemed rather mangy and reeked of mould and mothballs.

But most importantly, she'd started meticulously to research the statutes and laws that formed the basis of the current government. If Lucius had noticed, and she rather thought he had because there wasn't much that escaped his eyes, he had chosen not to bring up the topic.

So far, the marriage had been going swimmingly. When they'd again retired to the bedroom after the wedding breakfast he'd asked her whether she'd rather sleep on her own or share a bedroom, and she'd chosen the latter without hesitation. That had visibly cheered him up, as had the fact that no more lust potion was needed for their erotic pursuits.

On their third morning as a married couple, he'd asked her what she planned to do once she'd settled in, and she'd given a rather vague answer about intending to do some research and leaving the more permanent decisions for later. He'd given her one of his quick smiles but let the matter rest.

One day later he'd received a letter from Draco's head of house which had plunged him into a pensive, not to say gloomy mood. And so Hermione had made up her mind. It was time to make her move – the stakes were high, but she felt that she now had a sufficient grasp of the matter and a very clear, straightforward plan. She had also realized that, while by no means insurmountable, the task was too great for her to master it on her own. Accepting help had never been her cup of tea, and asking for help was something she found completely unpalatable. So she'd have to think of a way to make Lucius think she was helping him, not vice versa.

They'd gone to bed rather late and taken their time making love; Hermione still felt deeply shaken with the emotional impact – there was no denying that she was developing a serious crush on her husband – when they'd successfully located and put on their nightclothes.

'You're making me very happy,' she said, smiling at him when he opened his arms, beckoning for her to lie close to him.

'Happy?' He kissed the crown of her head. 'Isn't it a little early for such enthusiasm?'

'I don't think so.' She played with the topmost button of his pyjama top. 'Right now you're making me happy. I've no idea whether I'll be saying the same thing in five years' time, but right now you do.'

'Are you sure you're not mixing up happiness and blindingly fantastic sex?'

'I'm sure the sex plays an important part. But...' She sighed when his hand came to rest on her waist. '

'But?' he prompted.

'But it's more than just that. Companionship, maybe.'

Lucius made a face. 'That reeks of old age and creaking joints.'

'Friendship then?'

'Maybe. I still think it's a bit-'

'Too early for such enthusiasm. I know, I know.' She propped herself up on an elbow and looked down at him. 'Why? Don't you want to be friends with me? Or don't you trust me?'

'Trust...' He traced the silhouette of her upper arm with his fingertip. 'Considering that you still haven't told me why you wanted to marry me...'

'That intrigues you, doesn't it?'

'It certainly is a conundrum.'

'And you'd like to know the answer.'

'I'm sure I'll find out in time.'

Hermione rolled her eyes. 'Why can't you just say, yes, I'd like to know?'

'I have to keep up a reputation,' he replied, smiling up at her.

'Speaking of keeping things up...' She let her hand wander under the waistband of his pants. What she encountered there brought a grin to her face. 'Ready again?' The rhetorical question was accompanied by a deft caress.

'I don't recall imposing on you,' he said a little stiffly. He definitely had trouble controlling his voice.

'If anyone here is imposing, it's me. I'm sure you would have dealt with it discreetly. As you deal with everything. Slytherin.' She threw back the duvet in order to have better access and sat astride his knees. 'Don't you want to know?'

Lucius lifted his upper body and watched her fingers as they made quick work of his buttons. 'Why am I under the impression that you want to tell me something?'

'That's probably because I'm not very good at keeping a poker face. A mask of imperturbability,' she explained, seeing his questioning look.

'Not very good being an understatement. But I'm prepared to overlook that, since you've acquired such remarkable skills with your tongue.'

He moaned and fell back into the cushions when she demonstrated just how remarkable her skills had become. She was quite pleased with them herself, not to mention surprised at how much she liked exercising them. 'I want to tell you,' she murmured into his skin. 'If you really want to know, that is.'

Lucius's response being rather inarticulate, she suggested, 'Why don't we play a game?'

'Game?' he groaned, hands clenching in her curls. 'What game?'

'If you admit you're curious and deign to – ouch, careful with my hair! – deign to ask questions for once, you'll get answers and' – she gently grazed her teeth down his length – 'a reward.'

'You make that sound rather tempting, my dear.'

'Believe it or not, that was exactly the point. So, ask away.'

'What exactly is my reward?'

Hermione slapped his thigh. 'That's a bit rich, don't you think, considering that I'm doing all those wonderful things to your cock?'

'But I'm really making a sacrifice here,' he purred.

'All right.' She raised her head and put a finger to her lips, cocking her head. 'Would you consider watching while I, erm, touch myself, a sufficient reward?'

He drew a sharp breath. 'You'd do that?'

'I'll be mortally embarrassed, but yes.'

'A sacrifice for a sacrifice. Slytherin pride for virginal' – that got him another slap – 'shyness. A most suitable transaction.'

'I see we understand each other.' Hermione lowered her head again. 'I'm awaiting your first question.'

'Why did you marry me?'

'No, no. It's not _that_ easy, you see. I want specific questions.'

'Was it for money?'

'You lousy bastard! Look where my teeth are!'

'All right, all right. Was it vengeance?'

The question was amply rewarded. 'That's a bit silly,' Hermione said when her tongue wasn't otherwise occupied anymore, 'or is this what you call vengeance?'

'You could be saving it for later.'

'The answer is no. Try again.'

'Some kind of charity project you need the money for? Do you maybe want to free all house elves?'

'You're close. Quite close.' This time, she used her mouth and both hands.

'You have no idea how close!' he groaned. 'So it is a project?'

'More of a plan.'

'A plan... Does it in any way involve the Marriage Law?'

'Clever,' she said. 'Yes, it also involves the Marriage Law.'

Lucius chuckled. 'I see. You're planning to overthrow the Minister for Magic, put me in his place and reward any political reforms I undertake by offers of increasingly deviant sex.'

His cock was released with a small popping noise, and Hermione rose on her knees to wriggle out of her nightgown. 'That's more or less correct. Although I hadn't thought of the deviant-sex-as-reward-bit, and I'm not sure you ought to be Minister. Do you want me to stay like this or lie on my back?'

Speechless, Lucius gaped at her. 'You're serious, aren't you?'

'Dead serious. Upright or on my back?'

'Hermione, this is no time for... Oh, sod it. On your back. And make sure to stop right before you come, or I'll have to give you the spanking of your life.'

Hand hovering above her stomach, Hermione frowned at him. 'Spanking doesn't count as deviant, does it? Because I wouldn't want to give you any undue rewards.'

* * *

When the older Mrs Malfoy dropped by three days later for a spot of afternoon tea and a chat, the domestic idyll she found in the library made her utter an unladylike squeal: her son was sitting in an armchair with his wife on his knees, and they were arguing.

'He's very clever!' Hermione said, extending a hand towards Crookshanks. 'It's hardly his fault if your bookmarks are so interesting! Yes, you're such a clever, pretty boy, aren't you, Crooks?' She scratched the loudly purring Crookshanks behind his ears.

'I spent two hours looking for that quote! Only for your deranged feline to-'

'He's a Kneazle!'

'If he's a Kneazle, I'm Cornelius bloody Fudge!'

'All right, half-Kneazle.'

'I'm sure he isn't even one-eighth Kneazle.'

'Quoted directly from The Pureblood Guide to Cat Eugenics? Don't pinch my bum, that's cheating!'

'But you like it, don't you?'

'That's completely beside the point. And don't – oh Lucius, don't! We only got out of bed two hours ago!'

That was the moment when Mrs Malfoy squealed with delight.

Lucius retrieved his hand from his wife's cleavage and merely said, 'Impeccable timing, mother, as always.'

Hermione gave his ponytail an affectionate pull. 'Time to have a look at the stables, I think.'

Watched by his wife and mother, Lucius stalked towards the door. 'I'll leave you to your gossip then,' he declared and left, in as dignified a manner as possible, considering that he suspected the two women were going to talk about him.

Bunter, who owed his name to Lucius's grandfather Tullius, a fan of all things Muggle and detective stories in particular, served tea and retired, exuding surliness.

'I'm sure Lucius never kicked _him_,' Hermione remarked, while pouring their tea.

'Lucius only ever kicked that Dobby creature. He ought to have given him clothes, really. Vengeful little bastard, and all the kicking didn't improve his character.'

'But…' Hermione frowned. 'Dobby saved Harry's life! He practically worshipped the ground Harry walked on. He was a bit, well, overwhelming, I'll grant you, but vengeful?'

'Oh, certainly. He was one of the Black house elves and came here as part of Narcissa's dowry. Fiercely loyal to Narcissa – Lucius wasn't the most faithful of husbands, and that little wretch had the gall to spy on him and report back to his wife. Lucius wasn't amused when he found out.'

'Oh. I see. Well, that… At least I understand now why he treated Dobby so badly. Although cheating on his wife wasn't…'

'I'm sure he'd never cheat on you.' Mrs Malfoy leaned back and popped a canapé into her mouth.

'I'm afraid we won't be able to put his fidelity to the test – even Casanova would've thought twice before cheating, given the consequences.'

'True, but…'Mrs Malfoy shot her an anxious look. 'You're not unhappy with him, are you? Or planning to run off with that Casanova fellow?'

'Pandora, historical inaccuracies aside, we've been married for a week and spent most of the time in bed. How on earth would I be unhappy? It's early times, though.'

Her mother-in-law pondered this. 'So you're… compatible?' she asked.

'As compatible as porcupine quills and ashwinder eggs, I assure you.'

'That explosive?'

'More. And he agreed to cooperate. I still have to find a way to dissuade him from wanting to become Minister for Magic, but I'm sure I'll find a convincing argument, if I put my mind to it.'

'Well,' Mrs Malfoy said, 'if the colour of the ceremonial robes isn't enough of a deterrent…'

'He can change that, once he's minister.'

'True. He can change pretty much everything, which goes a long way to explain the attraction. He'd have to work regular hours, though.'

'I already tried that. He said he'd work from home, and people would have to get used to a Minister who didn't show up at the ministry every day, punctual as clockwork.'

'That's my Lucius. Maybe you just ought to remind him every now and then how tedious and boring the Minister's job really is, even if he works from home.'

Hermione refilled both their teacups. 'You know,' she said, 'the problem is: whom _would_ we want to be minister?'

'I thought you wanted to instate that general selection thingummy,' Mrs Malfoy said. 'So it wouldn't be up to you but to the people.'

'That's right, but in order to have an election, you need candidates. Lucius could charm the chastity belt off a nun, he'd win any election hands down. He was officially acquitted by the Wizengamot, and he's rich and good-looking – people tend to forget minor things like his Death Eater past. Believe me, I know, we've had elections for almost a hundred years in Muggle England, and it's exactly like that.'

'If it's really like that, I don't quite understand why you even bother.'

Hermione shrugged. 'A very wise man once said that democracy was the worst system there is, but that there isn't a better one. The Minister for Magic is just one man, or woman, and if there's also a parliament, and courts of law and an executive – that would be the Law Enforcement and Aurors – who don't respond to the Minister but to somebody else, one man can do much less damage.'

'I say, that's rather clever. But a lot of work – you can't do that on your own, just the two of you.'

Hermione grabbed the two remaining egg and watercress sandwiches. Sex had a tendency to make her very hungry. 'No, we can't do it on our own, but don't forget the huge potential of discontent the Marriage Law has created. In a way, Kingsley did us a big favour by coming up with that stupid law. He thinks people are enthusiastic, but once they understand what the law really means, the impact it will have on their lives, they won't be happy with it. Lucius has already put out his feelers, and it seems that some people, Muggleborn as well as pureblooded, are beginning to be very, very pissed-off.'

'So you're going to start a conspiracy?' Mrs Malfoy said, eyes shining with Slytherin ardour.

'You could call it that, yes. We have to start small and rely on a few people to spread the message, carefully of course. Take Ginny Weasley for example, my bridesmaid, you remember her?'

'Lovely redhead, full of mischief? I certainly remember her – saw her smooching the living daylights out of Harry Potter, during the wedding.'

'That's her.' Hermione grinned. 'She's been in love with Harry for ages, and next year she'll be eighteen. Imagine how she's feeling – she's a pureblood, and she probably won't be able to get married to the love of her life.'

In her indignation, Mrs Malfoy almost dropped her teacup. 'Boll- I mean, nonsense! If her parents give their consent, she can marry her precious Potter anytime she likes!'

'They refuse to give their consent.'

'What? Are those people insane? Who on earth wouldn't want their daughter to marry Harry Potter?'

'You're preaching to the converted, Pandora. I don't understand it either. It's probably got to do with a warped sense of honour, everyone having to do their bit, or something like that.'

The teapot was empty, and Hermione called Bunter to refill it. 'You seem to have something on your mind,' she said, when they were again alone.

'Yes… I'm not sure though. I think we need Lucius, he has an excellent memory for obscure details.'

'So do I,' Hermione said, slightly piqued.

'I'm sure you do, dearest, but this is about 13th century customary law.'

'All right,' Hermione muttered, 'I admit defeat.'

'Don't fret, my dear. He's had twenty-five years' head start, not to mention the family library.'

Mrs Malfoy called for Bunter, who appeared with an annoyed crack. Bunter was able to convey an almost infinite variety of emotions of a mostly negative nature merely by the sound of Apparition. Always avid to learn a new skill, Hermione had meant to ask him how he did it, but Lucius had strongly advised her against it.

'Be so good as to fetch Master Lucius,' Mrs Malfoy said.

'Master Lucius is currently down at the stables.'

'I'm perfectly aware of that, now go and fetch him. And quickly.' The elf disappeared with a disapproving pop. 'Lucius loves Bunter,' Mrs Malfoy said. 'You saw them on my pictures, Bunter was always with him, ready to get him out of all those scraps he got himself into. Of which there were many.'

'That was Bunter? I thought it was his nanny.'

'Don't let Bunter hear that, or he'll never forgive you. Ah, here you are, Lucius.'

'Here I am, mother. Did you merely have a desire to state the obvious, or is there anything I may do for you?'

'Don't get cheeky with me. Listen, Lucius, I seem to remember a bit of rather, well, obscure medieval law concerning the adoption of members of one's extended family.'

'The Lex Verruciana?'

'Verruciana?' Hermione frowned. 'Does it have anything to do with verruca?'

Already busy locating the text in question, Lucius nodded. 'Yes, it was named after Walafred the Warty, who compiled more or less all of his times' customary law. It's one of the most important legal texts of the last eight hundred years, and many of its regulations are still in force nowadays. The law concerning the adoption of family members is one of them. Ah, here it is.' He summoned a large, heavy tome from the top shelves and levitated it onto his desk. 'What exactly do you need it for, mother?'

'I think,' the old lady said, trying to look innocent and playing with her pearl earrings, 'that I'm going to adopt Ginevra Weasley, who I'm sure is related to me, provided she wishes me to do so. She has to ask me, unless memory fails me, in the presence of two witnesses. That would be the two of you, in case you had any doubts.'

'My wife wants to start a revolution, and now my mother starts randomly adopting girls! What on earth have you two been cooking up?'

'The revolution, of course,' his mother said. 'Don't be such a drama queen, Lucius. It's merely a prophylactic measure, in case you can't get the revolution going soon enough. And you'd better go look for a nice girl for Draco, and sooner rather than later, and get them married post haste, or I'll have to adopt him as well.'


	7. Chapter 7

PART 7

Draco had the dubious honour of being the reason for the first serious argument between Hermione and Lucius.

The first meeting of what was to become the revolution's inner core had gone very well – the term "revolution" had somehow stuck, although Hermione didn't like it for its violent connotations. Mrs Malfoy sen. had participated, as had Ginny Weasley – Hermione had cold-bloodedly forged a letter, allegedly written by Ginny's mother, that asked the Headmistress to send her daughter home on family business. Since the new term had only started a week ago, and reconstruction work was still going on at Hogwarts, Hermione had been sure McGonagall was much too busy to verify whether a perfectly innocent letter was genuine. They weren't living in troubled times anymore, after all.

The adoption business had been settled to everybody but Molly and Arthur Weasley's satisfaction. Though coarse and a little primitive, medieval law had the advantage of being remarkable straightforward. A request in front of two witnesses, followed by a magical formula and a few wand movements, and the biological parents had lost all their rights. It was the perfect instrument for powerful wizards to protect a poor relative from being bartered off on the marriage market, which was exactly the purpose I had been created for. Pandora Malfoy had already given her consent for her adoptive daughter to marry Harry Potter, who couldn't quite believe his luck.

At the end of the first, another meeting had been scheduled to take place ten days later; tasks had been divided up between the conspirators, and they had parted at a very late hour, tired but satisfied.

Hermione and Lucius were having a nightcap in the library. They sleepily went though the night's events once more, but Lucius seemed distracted.

'What's the matter with you?' Hermione asked. 'You ought to be smug, but you're looking like Crookshanks when I have to put him on a diet.'

'I was thinking about Draco.' Lucius downed his firewhisky in one go and refilled his glass. 'Mother is right, it would be best if he got married now.'

'Yes,' Hermione agreed, 'I'm sure that would be best. And he's certainly got a girlfriend, so I guess he won't object. Why don't you write to McGonagall and ask her to send him home for the weekend, so you can talk it through?' Considering the icy silence that reigned between father and son, this was a rather bold suggestion. Tiptoeing around the issue, however, wasn't going to help Draco.

'Home?' Lucius frowned into his glass. 'This isn't his home.'

Hermione thought she hadn't heard him correctly. 'I beg your pardon? How can you say such a thing, of course it's his home!'

'Not my words.' The second whisky vanished at an alarming rate and was replaced by a third, larger one. 'His.'

Acutely aware that she'd entered dangerous ground, Hermione asked, 'Is it because Narcissa died? He must know it wasn't your fault. Nobody even realized she'd been cursed, until it was too late. Or at least that's what the papers said.'

'The papers were right, for once. And please be so kind as to refrain from spouting inanities – of course it was my fault.'

The arrow hurt, but Hermione chose to disregard it. 'Your wife was a Death Eater, Lucius. Not an innocent tag-along. She did help us in the end, yes, but she bore a Dark Mark, just like you used to. By her own choice, I suppose.'

'What do you know about choices!' he spat.

He was getting quite drunk, Hermione realized, and the rational part of her mind told her to leave him be. But the insult stung. 'I know a lot about choices,' she said quietly. 'And I'm not blaming her and you neither. And we're losing our thread, because we were talking about Draco. So why does he feel this isn't his home anymore?'

'Kindly leave family matters to me.'

Now he'd hit her where it really hurt. She was getting very angry, and tears of fury burned in her eyes. 'So I'm not family?' she said flatly.

'Not when it comes to Draco, no.'

'That's a pity. Because maybe I could handle him a little better than you. We've never been friends, but I didn't make him kill Dumbledore either, you know.'

Lucius had been staring fixedly into the fire, but now he turned to look at her. His expression made her recoil deeper into her chair. '_I_ made him kill Dumbledore?'

'N-no, Voldemort did, but you didn't do anything to-'

Crash! Went his glass bursting into a million shards. The flames hissed briefly as they consumed droplets of alcohol. 'I was in prison! What do you think I should or could have done?'

'I…' She hugged her shoulders for comfort. 'I thought the plan… the plan had been hatched much earlier, and…'

'As a matter of fact, it had.' He laughed hollowly. 'Are you happier now? Yes, the plan had been made earlier, and I didn't know what to do when Voldemort requested that Draco execute it. But' – he stabbed his index finger in her direction – 'don't you dare tell me it wasn't my fault. Draco wants nothing to do with me, and I know I'm to blame.'

'All right!' Hermione yelled, 'So it was your fault! Is that all you're going to do, get drunk and maudlin and repeat it was your fault? That's not going to help him, you bloody idiot, can't you see that?' She took a few breaths and continued, a little more calmly, 'Admitting you're guilty is a good thing, but it's only the beginning. It's what you do _after_ confessing that counts. Otherwise it's useless. If you stop there, you accomplish nothing! Write him a letter, go see him, but break that silence, for heaven's sake. It's destructive, and it's making you miserable.'

'You're my wife, you'll have to put up with my misery.'

'I don't have to put up with any of this bullshit!'

He stared at her, arms crossed. 'Very well, leave me. Leave, if you can't stand it. You're free to go.'

Now the tears were stronger than her will to hold them back. 'You're chucking me out?'

'I'm telling you you're free to leave, that's a little different. But I'm willing to throw you out, if it makes you feel better. I'm sure you'll enjoy having the moral high ground.'

She'd known the bliss wasn't going to last, and she certainly hadn't expected her married life to be a bed of roses. But she hadn't imagined it to turn into a bed of thorns so quickly. Moreover, the way he was using her own words against her made her so furious she wanted to hit him. Unfortunately she was crying so hard that she couldn't even make out where to aim.

'Stop crying!' he barked.

'Go fuck yourself, Lucius. I need to cry, and so I'll cry. You ought to thank your lucky stars, because I'd hex you if I could see anything!'

Hermione's eyes were swollen, and the tears blurred her view, but she dimly saw Lucius turn and take two steps towards the door. That's it, she thought. If he leaves now, I just can't go after him, because I'm right and he's wrong, and he started it, and he's leaving, and now it's all over. She buried her head between her knees and willed herself to wake up, for surely this had to be a bad dream.

A cool, dry hand came to rest on her nape. 'Maybe,' Lucius said, 'I ought to go and fuck you, instead of myself.'

'Piss off, Lucius, I'm not in the mood for your mind games!' But the hand stayed where it was and started to move over her skin in slow, firm circles. 'Don't be such a bastard,' she sobbed. 'You know I'm feeling dreadful and lonely. Don't use that against me, it's not fair!' When he squeezed into the chair next to her, she elbowed him into the ribs. 'I said piss off!'

'I'd be very, very gentle,' he murmured into her ear. His tongue sneaked out to circle the earlobe. 'I'd kiss you and stroke you until you beg me to fuck you, and then I'd enter you, slowly…'

Emotionally needy as she was, his words and caresses had exactly the effect he'd wished for. Hermione raised her head. 'Sex isn't a heal-all, Lucius.'

'I never claimed it was. I was rather thinking that, if words only serve to drive us apart, maybe getting physically close would help.'

'So we could try again later? Talking, I mean.'

'So we could try again.'

Hermione gave a watery sigh and searched for a handkerchief. Lucius conjured one and gave it to her. 'I'm not sure this is going to work,' she said, dabbing at her eyes.

'Nor am I. But look at it this way: if we still can't talk after we had sex, we'll at least have had sex.'

* * *

During her school days Hermione had often wished to repeat the experience of hitting Draco Malfoy squarely in the face. Not necessarily with her fist, the verbal equivalent would have done as well.

Five years later, she finally got her wish.

He'd looked really endearing, though, when he came running into Horace Slughorn's office – the Head of Slytherin had graciously put it at her disposal for the meeting with Draco – and opened his mouth to say, 'Grandma!' He even got as far as the first syllable, but stopped mid-word and stared at Hermione, open-mouthed.

'Hello Draco,' she said, 'Long time, no see.'

'What in Hades' name are you doing here, Granger?' he snarled. 'The Slug told me that Mrs Malfoy…' Then the penny dropped. 'Right. Erm, congratulations. Are you already enjoying spending the family fortune?'

'Don't be such a prat.' She patted the chair next to hers. 'Sit down, so we can talk.'

'I don't think we have anything to talk about.'

She was about to say, You're just like your father, but thought better of it. He was exactly like his father, in that he shut the visor immediately whenever he felt that somebody was threatening his precious ego, but that probably wasn't what he wanted to hear. Instead, she said, 'Being back at Hogwarts must be nice.'

He shrugged. 'It's all right. Not as if I had anywhere else to go.'

'I think Pandora, I mean your grandmother, would love to have you.'

Draco's eyes lit up. 'How is she?'

Careful there, she thought. He clearly adores his grandmother, and we don't want him to be jealous. 'Very well, I think. I don't see her that often, you know.'

'So,' he said, 'why are you here? Did father send you? I guess he doesn't have the balls to come to see me himself.'

'It's less a question of balls, which I can assure you he has, than of being completely clueless.'

'Spare me the gory details, Granger. But he probably _is_ clueless, yes.'

Time to take the next step. 'So I persuaded him to let me go instead. Because we really need to talk - can you keep a secret?'

Draco snorted. 'Remember our sixth year? You ought to remember how well I can keep a secret. Even if it almost kills me,' he added with venom.

Strange, how the fact that he looked so much like his father now worked in his favour. She wasn't going to tell Lucius that, though. He was sure enough of the effect he was having on her as it was. 'Lucius and I are trying to find a way to repeal the marriage law,' she offered.

'And why would I be interested in your little games?'

'They're rather big games. And the law concerns you, too. Will concern you, to be exact.'

'So father is anxious that his precious estate might fall into the hands of a Mudblood?' Draco spat.

'No, he's anxious that you might fall into the hands of Dolores Umbridge. She hasn't made her offer yet, and her greed is legendary. Lucius was rather grateful she hadn't got him. But we have reason to believe she might be after you. You're his heir after all.'

'Umbridge?' Draco laughed, but it didn't sound very cheerful. 'No way! She's far too old! Surely the law says… or doesn't it?' Now he was sounding insecure.

'The law doesn't forbid large age differences – look at me and Lucius, we're twenty-five years apart.'

'Yes, but he's a man, and…' Draco swallowed. 'You aren't having me on, are you?'

'No, I'm not. Listen, Draco – sit down, for heaven's sake! Thanks, that's much better for my neck.' She looked down at her clasped hands. 'Listen, Lucius would have my head if he knew I'm telling you this. I'm not going to try emotional blackmail, because I think you've had more than enough of that. So I'm merely going to tell you that Lucius is desperate for you to marry some nice girl before you turn eighteen. Choice of girl entirely up to you, and I'll hold him to that promise. It has to be now, because we won't be able to get rid of the Marriage Law before your eighteenth birthday. The problem is that, even if we manage to have it repealed before the end of the year, the marriages concluded under the Marriage Law will still be valid, and the conditions will remain the same. So if Umbridge gets you, you'll have to stay married to her for fifteen years, fuck her at least twice and be unable to cheat on her, even if the law is abolished the day after the wedding. Have I made myself clear?'

'That…' Draco cleared his throat. 'That sounds rather bad.'

'That's because it _is_ bad. So will you at least consider getting married? Please, Draco, try not to be such a bone-headed twit!' When he didn't say anything, Hermione grasped his hand. 'Please, Draco! Fifteen years are a long time!'

When he suddenly looked her in the eyes, she had to suppress a shiver. She'd seen the same intensity in his father's eyes. 'Now that we've established that I can keep a secret, Granger,' he drawled, 'what about you? Can you?'

Hermione nodded. 'Of course I can.'

'You're sure you'll be able to resist when father turns on the charm?'

'It'll be difficult, but I promise I'll be as silent as the grave.'

'Sure?'

'Dead sure.' She'd already offered him her hand to shake, when she thought of something. 'Wait! Would it be okay if I talked to Pandora?'

'To grandma? Yes, that would be okay.' He grinned at her. 'I bet she likes you.'

'I like her, too. A lot. And now tell me your secret.'

'All right, here goes. But I swear I'm going to kill you, if you tell father that I'm gay.'

* * *

The rest of September went by, and the beginning of October brought heavy rainfalls, more revolutionary meetings and, at least on Hermione's part, the realization that she was now in love with her husband.

She wasn't quite sure how it had happened. He wasn't _that_ nice, after all, or at least not always. After the row about Draco, they'd had another two, at least as blistering as the first one. Pandora had been right, Lucius was quick-tempered. But his recipe of having sex when words became disastrous worked like a charm. Their ability to discuss controversial matters like adults unfailingly returned in the wake of wordlessly giving and receiving pleasure. They had worked their way through the question whether to organize a Christmas party for the house elves (yes, 1:0 for Hermione) and to the dilemma of finding the right location for Harry and Ginny's wedding (not Malfoy Manor, 1:0 for Lucius).

It wasn't just their relationship that was making progress. The development of their political endeavours was also very satisfactory.

Secret contacts had been established with People Who Counted – Hermione had been vastly surprised to see that Filius Flitwick counted, whereas Horace Slughorn didn't – and it seemed as if the wizarding world's first general election wasn't too far away. There were only twenty-seven magical communities in England, and so the parliament was going to be relatively small. But they'd found four candidates per community, who even had different political goals. Hermione was afraid her head might burst with pride. No, Lucius had remarked that her head might burst with pride, but since he'd said so in a very affectionate manner, Hermione didn't mind.

The choice of candidates for the position of Minister for Magic was likely to lead to another argument, because Hermione didn't know the wizarding elite all that well; she was sure Lucius was going to manipulate everybody, so they'd agree to have a couple of complete twits run against him for the position, thus guaranteeing that he won. Since the subject was somewhat touchy, they hadn't yet discussed it. Lucius had also pointed out that it ought to be the main topic of one of the next meetings. Hermione was still suspicious, but peace was reigning for the time being, or at least as much peace as it was possible to achieve when a headstrong, young Gryffindor and a sly, still rather ruthless Slytherin had to live under the same roof.

There was something that did cause her worries, though, and that was Draco.

Lucius had casually asked her how the meeting had gone, and she'd merely said that there was a girl, but that Draco hadn't been quite sure of her consent. For verisimilitude, she'd added that the girl was a Ravenclaw, and Draco was going to write as soon as he'd popped the question. It had seemed somewhat to appease Lucius's worries, but she could tell that he was far from calm.

A few days after her visit at Hogwarts, Hermione had gone to tell her mother-in-law about Draco's sexual proclivities.

'Gay?' Pandora had given her a look of total incomprehension. 'Are you saying he's merry? As in Three Merry Old Wizards from Shropshire?'

'Not exactly, unless you're alluding to a very particular kind of merry. What I'm saying is that he prefers boys.'

'He prefers… But that's dreadful, he'll never produce an heir!'

'Pandora, please. Lucius and I can produce as many heirs as we need, that's not the problem. It's the Marriage Law that's the problem – Draco will hardly be able, let alone willing, to marry some nice girl before he comes of age!'

'Let him marry a nice boy then! I'm sure there must be some obscure law stating that it doesn't matter whether a man marries a man or a woman. In my experience, there's an obscure law for everything.'

'I hope there is, but I can't do the research. I swore to Draco I wouldn't tell Lucius, and I don't want him to find out. You know how difficult it is to keep things from Lucius. Besides, I'm not sure keeping him in the dark is a good idea. You'll have to go looking for that law, Pandora, I'm relying on you!'

Ten days had gone by without a result. Lucius was getting increasingly twitchy; Pandora was getting more and more frustrated, because she wasn't the most methodical of researchers and always got lost in some book, collection or photo album ten minutes after she'd started. Hermione was fighting her inner Gryffindor who told her firmly that an oath was an oath, no matter what. Fortunately there also was an inner Slytherin who won the battle, if by entirely despicable means.

The flames were crackling in the fireplace of the master bedroom, whose occupants had already gone to bed and were reading.

'Lucius,' Hermione said, putting down her book and bravely executing her long-rehearsed opening gambit, 'is there anything Draco could do that you'd be unable to forgive him?'

'I don't think I'd still be able to call him my son, if he took to wearing bright yellow robes.' Lucius put a bookmark between the pages and deposited the tome on his bedside table. 'Is there any particular reason for you to ask such a dramatic question, my darling?'

He'd started calling her darling about two weeks ago. Hermione still wasn't quite able to stop a very soppy grin from spreading across her face whenever he used the endearment. 'There is,' she replied, 'and I'd be grateful if you were a bit more serious about the issue. My love.'

She'd never yet called him my love, although it had been on the tip of her tongue for quite some time. Closing her eyes, she listened to the rustle of silk against linen that told her he was shifting between the sheets. It had quickly become her favourite noise.

'Was that a slip of your tongue?' he asked, while his hand crept under the covers.

'No. I've wanted to say it for a while. I suppose it just wanted out.'

'Would you repeat it?

Breath hitching in her throat, she said it again. 'My love.'

After a very long and very intense kiss, Lucius said, 'I could get used to that. It's probably just the way you pronounce the L, but…' They lost themselves in another kiss.

'So it would be just the same if I said lick?' Hermione asked a little breathlessly.

'Not quite. I think it's the 'o' that makes all the difference.'

'Lock then?'

'No, still not the same.'

'Luck?'

'Sorry, but no.'

'Lovely?'

'Close, very close. But the second 'L' completely destroys the harmony.'

'But when I say Lucius, my love, it works?'

'Strangely enough, it does.' His head was resting on her shoulder and his right forearm on her belly. It was a reversal of her favourite sleeping position. 'And now tell me, lady of my heart. What was that about Draco?'

'He told me a secret and made me swear to keep it.'

'Swear?' He raised his head, eyes suddenly dark with worry. 'You didn't swear a wand oath or anything similarly pathetic?'

'No. No, I merely promised. But you know how I am…'

'Soft and sweet and entirely too alluring?'

'You are such a charming bastard, Lucius. I meant Gryffindor.'

'Oh, that. So you want to tell me but feel honour-bound not to. Would it help if I subjected you to Imperius? Cruciatus, maybe? That would make breaking your promise even more selfless and honourable. Or should I simply shag it out of you?'

'The last option seems very sensible.'

'And so very… attractive.' He stroked her breast through the fabric of her nightgown. 'Come on, tell me.'

'All right, I'll tell you. But if it makes you angry, and you dare take it out on me, you'll be in big trouble. I refuse to be your whipping boy, is that understood.'

'I am perfectly happy with you being my spanking girl, from time to time.'

Hermione pulled his hair. 'We really shouldn't be having serious conversations while in bed. It brings out the worst in you.'

'Considering that for you, serious means you're right and I'm wrong, our serious conversations tend to be less than harmonious, and afterwards we end up in bed anyway. Think of it as a shortcut.' He moved a bit, so that his nose came to rest against the tender skin under Hermione's ear. 'So what's the trouble with my son?'

'He seems to prefer men,' Hermione said, mentally bracing herself for the storm.

It didn't come though. Lucius merely sighed, and she felt his heartbeat against her side become slightly quicker. 'No wonder he insisted you keep it secret.'

'Do you…' She put her hand over his that was resting on her hip. 'Do you disapprove?'

'Not on principle. If I were some Tom, Dick or Harry, I couldn't care less, in the sense that whatever made him happy would be fine with me.'

'But it's different, because you're both Malfoys?' She was unable to prevent a somewhat mocking tone from creeping into her voice.

'It's neither funny nor nonsense, Hermione. Yes, it _is_ different because we're Malfoys. If there hadn't been a male heir in every single generation, for the last five hundred years, this family could never have acquired the social, economic and political standing it has.'

'I'm aware of that, but power and prestige aren't everything.'

'That's a very easy thing to say, if you haven't been born and raised the way I have.'

Hermione bit her lip; this was such a... conflicted, complex matter. It wasn't something one could completely rationalize, and she was aware that rationalizing was her usual way of dealing with things. Her fingers were playing with a strand of Lucius's hair. 'I think,' she said slowly, 'that I can understand you perfectly, in some corner of my mind. It goes against everything _I've_ been brought up to believe, but that doesn't mean I can't see your point of view. Besides I want to see it. I want to understand you.'

'You're not usually an advocate of tradition, my darling, which is why I appreciate it all the more.'

'But,' Hermione continued, 'I think the question is, how much are you willing to sacrifice in order to continue that tradition?'

'Well, firstly I agreed to get married under the Marriage Law.'

'That doesn't really count, because the consequences would have been too dreadful. Anybody would have agreed. And you can hardly complain, can you?'

'I wouldn't dream of it.'

'You'd better not, if you know what's good for you. No,' she said, when Lucius's fingers began to wander, 'not yet. I'm thinking, and I can feel that I'm very close to a solution.'

'Already tiring of me?'

'Lucius, you're fishing for compliments, and not in the subtlest of ways. How very, very unworthy of you. Now listen, I'd like you to help me thinking. Draco is gay, that's a fact, right?'

'Am I expected to applaud, or would a simple yes be sufficient?'

'Don't be so obstructive, Lucius. A simple yes is fine.'

'Unless it's merely a ploy to anger me, yes, correct.'

'If it's merely a ploy, we don't have a problem, because he can simply marry whomever he fancies, provided he does so within the next five weeks. So let's assume it's the truth. Next point: the Marriage Law doesn't forbid same-sex marriage, but the need to have at least one child rather excludes that possibility.'

'That seems to hit the nail on the head, yes.'

'Pretty much, I'm afraid. Now tell me something: When we have a child, what will be his or her status, inheritance-wise?'

'Draco is the heir – any other child would merely get a legacy. And, since I inherited after Narcissa, I would of course leave that part of our fortune to our child or children.'

'That's a bit unfair, but we're going to talk about that another time.'

'Yes, mistress.'

'Oh, stop it. Could Draco renounce in favour of his half-brother or sister?'

'Theoretically he could. I would never suggest or encourage it, though.'

'Even if it bought him a happy life?'

'You mean because, if he renounced, it wouldn't matter anymore that he's gay? The choice would be up to him, of course, but...'

'So why don't we ask him? Look, it's really simple: right now, we have to get him out of the marriage trap, which means he either has to leave the country, and I suppose Spain or France or Italy wouldn't be far enough. Or we have a gay wedding in the next five weeks. There's no law against that, is there?'

'Not that I know of, no. It's not as common as it used to be, but gay marriages are both legal and possible.'

'Good. And that's the really urgent part taken care of, because the rest can wait for many, many years. You never know, with time he might discover that being gay was just a fad, or that he's really bisexual. Once we've managed to have that stupid law abolished, he'll be free to decide for himself. He can stay married, or get a divorce, whatever. And if we realize, in the end, that he isn't going to have children, well, you can still pop the question. And, even if he refuses to renounce, there's still the possibility of adoption.'

'You're... right.' It came out a bit reluctantly. 'But don't forget that we can't force him to get married right now, to whoever his current boyfriend may be. The boyfriend would have to agree, for one.'

'As I said, if a marriage can't take place now, we'll have to get him out of the country.'

'Mmh. The headmaster of Durmstrang is a very good friend.'

'Would he be safe at Durmstrang?'

'The school is completely autonomous. No-one enters it unless authorized by the headmaster. I can't think of a safer place.'

He was getting a bit heavy, and Hermione extricated her right arm from underneath her husband. It had gone completely numb. While rubbing it back to life, she said, 'Well, that's rather satisfactory, isn't it?'

'It is, but who's going to convey the tidings of comfort and joy?'

'You, of course.'

'Are you out of your mind?'

'I'm very much inside my mind. I'm going to talk to Pandora – she'll be ecstatic, if I ask her to let him stay for the weekend. And I'll also talk to McGonagall... No, maybe you ought to do that. I'm probably not in her good book right now.'

'What makes you think that I am?'

'Oh, I'm sure she absolutely detests you, but you do carry a certain authority. Plus, you're his father. I'm merely his stepmother, and she'd probably give me detention. Tell her you want to save your son from Umbridge, and that she has to authorize a visit at his grandmother's. Once he's there, you and I will join the party. I'm pretty sure he won't misbehave in Pandora's presence.'

Lucius rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. A muscle in his temple was twitching, but he remained silent.

'You don't really fancy talking to him,' Hermione stated.

'That's an interesting and, dare I say, rather anodyne way of putting it.'

'Nobody likes the thought of being rejected.'

'It's not so much... Let's not go there now. I'll think about it.'

'But in the end you'll agree, won't you?'

His face softened a bit. 'It's a possibility.'


	8. Chapter 8

PART 8

After handing her cloak to Pugsley, Hermione went to hug her mother-in-law. 'How's Draco? Did you tell him we were coming?'

'I thought it was better if he could prepare himself. He's like his father, doesn't like surprises, because they're bad for the aloofness. Where is he, by the way?'

'Looking at the stables, probably.' The two women laughed, a little nervously. 'No, he's still outside, pretending to give orders to Bunter. Oh, Pandora, I hope this goes well! They can be such pricks, both of them.'

'I'm sure they'll be able to clear the air. There you are, Lucius! Dear me, how formal,' she exclaimed when he kissed her hand. 'Come here and give us a kiss.' Hugging her son, she winked over his shoulder at Hermione. 'Now go ahead, tea's ready in the salon. I'll go and fetch Draco.'

Hermione tried to take Lucius's arm, but he did nothing to accommodate her. 'Would you rather we left?' she asked quietly.

'No. I don't run away from a challenge.'

'I know you don't. But-'

'No buts. I'm going to face him.'

Not the most promising of beginnings, Hermione thought. But at least it was a beginning. Then the door creaked softly in its hinges, and she turned just in time to see Mrs Malfoy giving her grandson a none-too-gentle push. 'Draco,' she said and, seeing his flushed face, 'Have you been flying?'

He gave her a small smile of gratitude. 'Erm, yes. It's, erm, terribly cold outside, though not as bad as up North.' He cleared his throat. 'Hello, father.'

At first, Hermione thought she'd have to shove him, just like his mother had done with Draco, but then Lucius's stiff stance loosened a little, and he went to shake his son's hand. 'Draco. It's… a pleasure.'

Draco lowered his head, so that his half-length blond hair obscured his face. 'Thank you father. It's good to see you. And, well, congratulations.'

'I'd have preferred to receive them on my wedding day. But thank you.'

Hermione could clearly see a vein in Draco's temple beginning to pulse erratically, but Pandora squeezed his hand – there was less affection than brute force involved – and gestured at the table. 'I'm sure we'd all like to have tea now,' she said.

There were two teapots on the side table – strange, Hermione thought. There'd been four of them, too, when her parents had come to visit, but only one pot. She didn't comment, though, and sat down between Lucius and Draco. Pandora was sitting opposite her, eyes gleaming as she looked from father to son. 'I thought,' she said, when everybody had taken their seats, 'that I'd make some of that spiced chai you've always liked so much, Lucius. And you, too, Draco. It's not much common ground, but we have to start somewhere.' She filled the two men's cups and continued, 'I'll drink my usual brand, and since you're allergic to cardamom, my dear, I'm afraid you'll have to join me.'

Not only was Hermione not allergic to cardamom, she did indeed like spiced chai a lot. But there was a warning in the look Pandora shot her, and so she merely said, 'How very kind of you to remember. Thanks.'

Pugsley floated a plate of sandwiches around the table; to an uninvolved observer it would have looked like a slightly boring but perfectly normal family afternoon tea. But not for long, because Pandora suddenly broke the silence. 'I hope you're both aware that you've been behaving like idiots?'

Lucius abruptly turned his head to look at her. 'I don't think idiots quite covers it. I've made every mistake I could possibly have made, but I'd rather bite off my tongue than apologize.' Hands suddenly trembling, he stared at his teacup. 'Mother, you didn't…'

'I think you both need to tell each other the truth,' Pandora said calmly. 'Knowing you, and I mean both of you, there was no other way. Get on with it then, you've got one hour.'

Draco, who didn't look half as struck as his father, produced a flat silver case from his pocket, took out a cigarette and lit it with the tip of his wand. 'You're a meddling old biddy, grandma.'

'This is beyond meddling,' Lucius stated. He sounded frozen and a little fragile. 'This is about betraying my trust. I would never have…' He fell silent and merely shook his head.

'Exactly my thoughts,' his mother said. 'It's about trust, and I don't think there's a lot of that between you and your son. You love your son, don't you?'

'Of course I love him!' Lucius burst out. 'But only a fool like Dumbledore, or you for that matter, would think that's enough!'

Draco drew deeply on his cigarette. 'It's the first time you ever said as much. So I suppose this round goes to grandma.' He exhaled a perfect smoke ring. 'I thought I hated you, and for a while I despised you. Sitting there, in _our_ house, at _our_ table, allowing that raving lunatic to take your wand… It was fucking pathetic!'

Lucius was close to exploding, Hermione could sense it. She surreptitiously tugged her wand down closer to her wrist, so she'd be able to draw it more quickly.

But he managed to control his fury. 'I had no choice,' he replied. 'There were too many of them… If I could have been sure of your mother's support, and of yours – the three of us might have stood a chance. But on my own… There was nothing I could do.'

'You thought…' Draco's hand holding the cigarette was shaking. 'You thought I'd turn against you?'

'What else should I have thought? I hadn't seen you for a year, and when I came back you had a Dark Mark! A fanatical little Death Eater, eager to do his Lord's bidding – what do you imagine I thought?'

'Fanatical? Who do you think I got it from? You're such a hypocrite, I can't believe it! You used to be my fucking idol, you're my father, for fuck's sake! I wanted to be like you! I wanted you to be fucking proud of me!' He leaned back, breathing heavily. 'I wanted you to be proud of me,' he repeated, more calmly. 'You'd brought me up to imitate you, every gesture, every word. So I tried to be like you – cold, arrogant, sure of myself… Not that I was, I almost killed myself during sixth year, I was so desperate. But you'd taught me to despise everybody else, so why are you surprised that I did? I only had the choice between being you and being nothing.'

'You could have run,' Lucius said quietly. 'Gone to Dumbledore, asked him to hide you, protect you. I'm sure-'

'Oh stop that bullshit, father. You _know_ I couldn't have run. Voldemort would have killed you and mother. I could say the same to you – why didn't you run? You had a chance, after Azkaban.'

The ghost of a smile curved Lucius's lips. 'My reasons were the same as yours, or so it seems. You, your grandmother, your mother… I had a responsibility, and I wasn't going to dodge it.'

'I understand that now.' Draco lit another cigarette. 'And I don't hate you anymore for it. I'd even like to forgive you, it's just…'

'You can't.'

'I don't _know_! Right now, my grudge is the only thing that links me to you, and if I let go of that…'

Lucius nodded. 'I see. And I understand. Are you at least prepared to listen to my advice, Draco? I can't pretend I am happy with your, erm, preferences, but if there is anybody you'd be willing to… I'd accept him,' he concluded stiffly.

'I'm seventeen, father. I like to fuck around, but marriage isn't in the cards.'

'In that case, would you agree to go to Durmstrang? We' – he grabbed Hermione's hand, and she felt dizzy with relief – 'are trying to implement a few changes. If we succeed, the Marriage Law will be abolished, and you'll be free to return… home. If that is what you want.'

'Home sounds… nice,' Draco said, a little wistful. 'All right, I'll go to Durmstrang. You're sure they can't get me there?'

'Absolutely.'

'And you and Granger are going to pull this off?' He glanced from his father to Hermione. 'Are you happy together, or what? She's such a bossy cow, I can't imagine… And she punched my nose!'

Hermione snorted. 'That was five years ago! And I pulled my punch. Besides, the weather is so lovely, why don't we all go for a walk? I just read the latest research on Veritaserum, and it said that it wears of more quickly in the fresh air.'

They all got up, and Pugsley was dispatched to fetch their cloaks. In silent agreement, Mrs Malfoy took Draco's arm and speedily dragged him off towards the forest, and Hermione pretended to have got a pebble in her boot, so she and Lucius wouldn't be walking too close to them. They'd made a start, but both women felt that nothing more needed to be said for the time being.

She straightened up and waited for Lucius to offer her his arm, but he surprised her by putting it around her shoulders, enveloping her in his cloak. She sneaked her arm around his waist and smiled to herself, thinking about the beneficial effects of Veritaserum and breathing in his scent mixed with the crisp autumn air.

* * *

Autumn had always been Hermione's favourite season. She wasn't a big fan of heat and outdoor pursuits, and since she'd always been happy to go back to school, autumn had taken on the meaning of fresh starts and new challenges. And then, a little later, came the wonderfully cold, early nights that smelled of wood smoke and rotting leaves – was there anything better than staying inside on a rainy, grey evening, reading and scratching a boneless, purring Crookshanks?

She'd made a very comfy nest of blankets and pillows in front of the library fireplace; warm and drowsy as she was, she put her book down and let her mind wander. A year ago, she'd been cold, hungry, desperate and in a tent. Unmarried, too. Now she had a husband, a house, a mother-in-law, and not only did she appreciate being rich more than she would ever have thought possible, she was also beginning to recognize the value of power.

It was a bit like money: having lots of it didn't make you happy, but there were things you could do with it that had the potential to make you and others very happy.

Take Draco, for example. The meeting at Pandora's house hadn't been what one would call pleasant, but father and son had at least agreed that Draco was going to stay at Durmstrang until the storm had blown over. Durmstrang was neither short of students nor eager to take on young wizards from Western Europe, and so his acceptance had only been possible because of Lucius's money and connections. Power and money – it all came down to that, and if Draco wasn't deliriously happy, at least he didn't have to face a future with a woman he neither wanted nor loved.

And then there was of course their big project: reforming the wizarding world. They wouldn't have got as far as they had without power and money.

A little more than three months after the Marriage Law had been passed, not even Shacklebolt could pretend anymore that people were enthusiastic about it. The _Daily Prophet_ and _Witch Weekly_ continued to print ludicrous stories of harmony and happiness, but only because the Minister was leaning heavily on them. The _Quibbler_, not usually the wizarding world's favourite magazine, was selling more copies than ever, because they openly opposed forced marriage. Their arguments were sometimes ridiculous – surely a lack of conjugal love didn't lead to Nargle infestation – but at least people felt that somebody had the courage to speak their mind.

And the Marriage Law wasn't the only thing that was foul in the state of Denmark. Due to the rigorous cleansing operation all public and semi-public institutions had undergone in the last few months, understaffing had become a serious problem. New employees had been recruited by the score; unfortunately, experience and expertise had been cleaned out together with dubious ideologies, and St. Mungo's was going to the dogs, as were the Ministry for Magic, the Wizengamot and the Floo Regulation Board, to name but a few.

During one of their political meetings, Flitwick had pointed out that they might just as well lean back and watch the government destroy itself, but he'd been heatedly (and also convincingly) contradicted by Hermione. She'd been surprised and gratified that Lucius had taken her side when she argued that a power vacuum was the most dangerous thing that could possibly happen, especially so shortly after a period of instability. Not all of Voldemort's followers, whether open or tacit, had been put away; they'd merely lost everything and represented a silent but dangerous minority in a crumbling system.

That Lucius obviously wasn't keen to present himself to this gang of desperados as the New Dark Lord and attempt a coup d'état was a great relief to Hermione. She wouldn't have fancied herself as England's Dark Lady, and she liked Lucius's eyes exactly the way they were, thank you very much. Red really wasn't an option.

But he still was sufficiently taken with political intrigue to have fallen in love immediately with the term "shadow cabinet". The lurking-in-the-shadows it implied just appealed to him.

They did have their shadow cabinet, anyway, down to the last man and woman. It had become a cabinet, because everybody had agreed with Hermione's suggestion that they take a leaf out of the Muggles' book and have some kind of Prime Minister who, while primus inter pares, would be able to overrule one of his ministers – i.e. former heads of department – only with a majority of other ministers. Having more than one ministry was also going considerably to speed up administrative processes, since the Prime Minister wouldn't need to sanction every single request for new quills.

The time had come to put the concept into practice.

Since a coup d'état wasn't really a good beginning for a democracy, Kingsley Shacklebolt would have to be removed by non-violent means. In other words, Kingsley had to be blackmailed into resigning and – and that was the really important step – ring in the new era by passing a final law, a kind of constitution, before he shed the ceremonial robes of red velvet and retired, hopefully into anonymity.

The task of blackmailing Shacklebolt had unanimously been conferred to Lucius, for obvious – if not entirely flattering - reasons.

He'd agreed, but only on condition that there was to be a letter, detailing their political agenda and signed by every single member of their movement, which he'd then hand over to the Minister. Only Hermione knew about the nifty bit of charm work her husband had done on that letter – it worked very similarly to the lists the eligible purebloods and Muggleborns had had to sign under the Marriage Law. In case it all went pear-shaped, their signature would prevent the fellow conspirators from distancing themselves from either Lucius or their political machinations. They'd have to tell the truth, and since it was highly doubtful that the Minister could imprison almost two hundred of England's finest, among them two dozen war heroes, the letter was a reliable insurance policy. Which was the reason why Shacklebolt was only going to receive a copy.

Hermione put a hand on her queasy stomach. Tomorrow was the day. She'd managed to keep the thought out of her mind for a few hours, but now it was back, more disturbing than before. Drowsiness gave way to an overwhelming sense of anxiety. What if something went wrong? What if Kingsley simply cast Avada Kedavra on Lucius and claimed it had been self-defence? She'd only recently fallen in love with her husband and had no intention of becoming a widow.

Or, worse, what if Lucius overreacted? Angelic patience wasn't one of his strong points, and if Shacklebolt said or did the wrong thing...

Lucius had retired to his study more than three hours ago and didn't want to be disturbed. He had to go once more over the material they'd accumulated – it had cost many hours of work and a small fortune in bribes – so as to be well prepared for the next day's meeting.

On every other day, Hermione would've respected his wish for privacy – after all, when she needed time for herself, he did the same – but right now she _had_ to speak to him.

Abandoning book and Kneazle, she scrambled to her feet and climbed the stairs to the first floor. Lucius's study, a north-facing room at the opposite end of the corridor, was being guarded by none other than Bunter.

The house elf drew himself up to his full two feet five and looked at Hermione with an expression equal parts condescension, self-importance and menace. 'The master is not to be disturbed.'

'I know, but I have to disturb him now. Kindly let me enter.'

She was probably looking a bit wild – spending hours so close to the fireplace did terrible things to her hair – because Bunter winced slightly. But he stood his ground. 'The master will be very angry. He wants to be alone, and Bunter-'

Hermione casually took off her left shoe. 'I think,' she said slowly, 'that we wear the same size.'

She really had to congratulate herself – it was the first time Bunter had Disapparated with a panicky crack. Obviously Lucius had heard it, too, because he opened the door and frowned at the corridor. 'Oh, it's you. Where's Bunter? I thought I heard-'

He was interrupted by an armful of seriously distressed Hermione. 'We need to talk, Lucius. Right now.'

'All right,' he said, shoving her into the room and closing the door behind them. 'Is there a problem with your shoe, my dear?'

'N-not as such, no.' She put the shoe back on. 'Listen, Lucius, I have to come with you tomorrow.'

'Tomorrow? You mean to Kingsley? Absolutely not. Out of the question.'

Exactly as she had expected. This was going to take some serious work. 'I said I have to accompany you, and that's exactly what I'm going to do. You can't forbid it.'

'I can cast a full Body Bind. And believe me, I will. There's no way I'll allow you to attract the Minister's wrath. The letter provides protection for me, but not for you.'

'You're looking at it the wrong way, Lucius. I'm not attracting Kingsley's wrath, I'm minimizing the risk you're taking. Considerably.'

'Hermione.' He led her to a chair and kneeled down next to her. 'Please be reasonable. There is no danger, and-'

'Oh, but there is! What if Kingsley loses it? You're not asking him to buy you a drink! You're telling him, in no uncertain terms, that he's got to resign, or else. He won't be happy.'

'Making him unhappy, at least enough to resign, is more or less the point of the whole operation.'

'I know! That's exactly what I'm trying to tell you – he'll be furious! What if...'

'What if what, my darling?'

'He might kill you!'

'He might also do a spontaneous strip-tease, but I'm sure he'll do neither.'

'What if he does?' she said stubbornly.

'I suppose I'll have to avert my eyes.'

'It's not funny, you... you...' Oh god, she'd told herself that she mustn't cry. If there was anything she detested, it was feminine wiles, and crying instead of arguing one's cause was one of the worst among the many feminine wiles. Angrily, she rubbed at her moist cheeks. 'You're treating me like a child! You're trying to distract me by being funny, but it won't work! The whole thing was my idea, and I have a right... I'm your bloody _wife_! I'm entitled to share this with you!'

'I'm perfectly aware of you being my wife. Nevertheless-'

'And I fucking love you!'

Blond head bent, Lucius closed his eyes. 'She fucking loves me. Why did I have to marry a martingale, who-'

'I think you mean martinet,' Hermione said between hiccups.

'Yes. Yes, as a matter of fact I do. So you want to come with me because you love me?'

'Basically, yes.'

'Why basically?'

'Because...' She took his hand and circled the tip of his index finger with her tongue, sure in the knowledge that this little trick always worked. It was a trick, a very underhanded one, and definitely not a feminine wile. 'Do you have any idea of the major turn-on you are when you're being all smooth and masterful? All clad in black and with your hair open? You could tempt a bloody saint!'

'My dear Hermione, only you could downsize a dangerous political move to foreplay.'

'I thought,' she said in dulcet tones, 'that it wasn't going to be dangerous?'

His shoulders slumped. 'You're the bane of my existence.'

'Yes,' Hermione said and kissed him. She knew she'd won. She always won when she managed to outmanoeuvre him.

'The nail on my coffin.'

'Yes. And I'll be your witness tomorrow, and if that shit-headed, goat-buggering fool so much as looks at his wand...'

'Goat-buggering?' Lucius frowned. 'That's not in my files – is it true?'

'No, I made that up. It sounds good.'

'Just like I fucking love you.'

'I never even pretended I was romantic.'


	9. Chapter 9

PART 9

'The diary says "Private meeting with Lucius Malfoy".' The secretary frowned. 'There is no mention of your assistant.'

Lucius raised his chin and smiled thinly. 'The lady is my wife.'

'Oh, sorry. But it's as I said, there is no mention of Mrs Malfoy.'

'That,' Lucius drawled, 'is probably because my wife isn't here to talk. If you understand what I mean.' Hermione opened her mouth but closed it again, when Lucius gave her wrist a warning squeeze.

Still not quite sure, the secretary looked at Hermione, as if to size her up. Hermione tried to look as silly and insignificant as possible. 'You're the former Miss Granger!' the secretary suddenly said. 'I was sure I knew you. Well, that's all right then, since you're friends with the minister.' She waved them over to a couple of chairs and left the room.

'Friends with the minister!' Hermione growled. 'As if!'

'Shut up and learn. That was an important lesson: always let people come up with their own reasons to give you what you want. It's less work, and a lot more convincing.'

She batted her eyelids at him. 'Smooth and masterful, just as I said.'

'You're going to pay for this!'

'I'll hold you to- oh, Kingsley! It's a pleasure to see you.'

The minister kissed her hand and turned to Lucius. 'I'm sorry I made you wait. An important Floo call...' He ushered them into his office. 'Sit down, sit down. Would you like some tea? Or coffee perhaps?'

An imperceptible shake of Lucius's head made Hermione turn her yes, please into a polite refusal. Wicked man, she thought, but he was of course right: Kingsley may have heard rumours, and strong tea or coffee covered the flavours of so many nasty potions.

'Well,' Kingsley said jovially, 'what can I do for you?' He sat down in the chair they'd left strategically free for him; if necessary, Hermione would be able to draw her wand without being seen by him. She hoped things wouldn't go that far, though.

Lucius played with the head of his cane. 'Seeing as you're asking, you could resign.'

This perfectly honest statement – the verbal equivalent of hiding in plain sight – was greeted with hearty laughter. 'I wish I could,' Kingsley said. 'But who would be my successor, eh?' He winked at Lucius.

'Oh, I wouldn't presume... Although, if I were you, I'd rather retire to that lovely hacienda in Southern Spain... Being the Minister for Magic is such a frightfully boring pastime, don't you think?'

'I didn't know you had a hacienda in Southern Spain.'

'Oh, I don't. I happen to possess one or two little châteaux in Normandy – I can never remember whether there are one or two... I was referring to _your_ hacienda, Kingsley.' His cane was now casually propped against his right leg, his fingers hovering over the snake head.

'I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about.'

'Believe me, I understand you perfectly. I keep forgetting my châteaux, you your hacienda. These things do happen.'

'We also have a very nice house down in Cornwall,' Hermione piped up.

'Of course darling. Please don't interfere. I'm talking to Kingsley.'

'Yes, Lucius. Sorry.' She loved it. And Shacklebolt was lapping it up.

'So, Hermione, are you happy?' he asked. 'Married life suits you, doesn't it?'

She nodded demurely and managed a barely audible yes, careful to keep her eyes down and her head slightly bowed. Body language was a wonderful thing.

'Being married is very important for a man,' Lucius declared grandly. 'It's impossible to concentrate on important things, when you have to deal with domestic trifles. But Hermione has become very good at that. Haven't you, dear?'

Another nod, another 'Yes, Lucius.'

'I wonder,' Lucius continued in the same tone of voice, 'why you're still a bachelor, Kingsley. You certainly meet enough pretty girls.'

'It's difficult to find a good wife nowadays.'

Hermione was lovingly dwelling on a mental picture of robbing the minister of his family jewels. Not with a blunt knife though. She'd use a spoon, given half the opportunity.

'Difficult?' A thin smile indicated that Lucius thought otherwise. 'And I thought you'd created the Marriage Law for your own good!'

'I wish I could've done that. But my mother was a Muggle, alas.'

'I don't think so,' Lucius said. Now his voice was hard and icy, a reminder of times past. 'Your mother, dearest minister, was as pureblooded as they come, and your father's ascendants, all of them magical, can be traced back for four generations. Genealogical research is such a fascinating subject, isn't it?'

It seemed that Kingsley had understood. The hacienda the McNair family had very generously gifted him with in exchange for certain favours was just one of a dozen cherries on the cake. The real cake, though, was the pureblood status he'd been so eager to conceal. 'What do you want?' he rasped.

'I believe I already told you. Right at the beginning. Resign.'

'So you can take my place? Never!'

'Such courage in the face of adversity,' Lucius remarked calmly. 'Gryffindor to the core. But rest assured, Kingsley, I'll merely be one of three candidates. I might win, but if I do, it'll be because I've been elected. And I'm rich enough to refuse such ridiculous bribes as... let me see... we already mentioned the hacienda, then there's that well-filled vault at Gringotts' Zurich branch-'

'You gave that to me, you lying bastard!'

'Did I really? Oh and there are the shares in Firebolt Ltd...'

'Those aren't mine!'

'No, but your straw man is surprisingly talkative. Maybe you ought to have offered him a larger percentage of your profits.'

In his desperation, Kingsley turned to the silent third party. 'Hermione, he is... He's making it all up! If you testify against him, I promise I'll... whatever it is you want,' he finished weakly.

'I think,' Hermione said, 'I'd like to things to stay just as they are, as far as Lucius is concerned. Also, please bear in mind that I did the genealogical research – excellent fakes, by the way, but still fakes. Considering the number of wrongdoings you managed in a mere six months, I really think you ought to resign. It's time for democracy, Kingsley. People need to take responsibility, realize that they can change things and influence what's happening – this way the next Dark Lord won't come to power so easily.'

Pearls of sweat were gliding down the minister's forehead and into his eyes. 'You're _with_ him?' He gestured weakly at Lucius. 'But I heard... Potter told me how badly he's treating you.'

'Harry's going to get married on Saturday to Ginny Weasley, and he owes it all to the Malfoy family. I'm afraid he might not be your most fervent supporter – can you imagine how furious he was when he heard that you'd swindled and forged your way out of the Marriage Law, whereas the girl he loves would've gone to the highest bidder?'

'You bitch,' Kingsley said, but he sounded resigned rather than aggressive.

'Really, Kingsley, I would thank you not to insult my wife. Now sit down at your desk like a good boy, because you have to sign a few documents.'

While Kingsley obediently did as he was told and Lucius watched him with unflagging, hawk-like attention, Hermione observed her husband being all dominant and masterful. She'd told him the truth: it really was a major turn-on. When he briefly raised his head to make sure she was still on her guard – you never knew with those wand-happy ex-Aurors – she caught his eye and deliberately circled the tip of her left index finger with her tongue.

It had been a dangerous undertaking, but that didn't mean it couldn't be put to good use as foreplay.

* * *

'Enter,' Hermione said, when a knock resounded on the door of her dressing room. 'Oh, Lucius, you look fabulous!' She rose to breathe a kiss on her husband's cheek.

'My dear, this is most flattering, but you mustn't steal my lines. I just passed Draco on the corridor, by the way. He was looking a little… spooked.'

'I told you we ought to cast that silencing spell.' They'd just spent a couple of exceedingly pleasant hours in the master bedroom. 'He was probably eavesdropping, so he merely got what he deserved. How do I look?'

Lucius smiled. 'Fit for a king.'

'I'm afraid that will have to wait a bit, we just got a democracy.'

Bunter, who was still very much in awe of Hermione, appeared with a dignified pop and announced that the first carriage had just entered the driveway. It was time to face the music.

'Greeting our guests like this always makes me feel like a nightclub bouncer,' Hermione said on their way downstairs. 'Maybe I'll tell that fuck-head Grimsby that we won't let him in because he isn't on the list.'

'Behave yourself.' Lucius gave his cuffs a last tug. 'We are only expecting two hundred guests, and then you can get drunk.'

'It's New Year's Eve, of course I'm going to get drunk.'

The entrance door opened, and Bunter announced Minerva McGonagall.

'Madam Chief Justice.' Lucius bowed to kiss her hand.

She inclined her head. 'Minister.' The afterthought But Not Prime Minister, You Smarmy Bastard, was almost audible. Then she kissed Hermione on both cheeks. 'How are you, dear child?'

'Very well, thank you.'

'When are you going to sit your N.E.W.T.s?'

Obviously being married to a former Death Eater turned Minister of Finance didn't offer any protection against former teachers. Hermione cleared her throat. 'I, erm, hadn't really planned...' She eagerly listened for more carriages to arrive and save her, but the only sound she could hear was her mother-in-law cheerfully calling Bunter a shrivelled-up grump. Draco wasn't showing his face either, the wuss.

'Nonsense,' the Chief Justice of the High Wizengamot said. 'With a mind like yours... Whatever are you going to tell your children, if they're neglecting their school work?'

'Do your homework or your father will Crucio you?' Hermione offered hopefully.

'This is no laughing matter. Lucius?'

'Yes, Madam Chief Jus-'

'Stop that nonsense, Lucius. You always call me Minerva. Now tell your wife she has to finish her education.'

'You know perfectly well that my wife doesn't – what were your exact words, dear?'

'I don't take any shit from you,' she supplied helpfully.

McGonagall sniffed and looked down her nose at her ex-favourite student. 'You two seem to understand each other quite well.'

'We have our moments.' Lucius put his arm around Hermione's shoulders. 'It's hopeless, though. I tried goading, I tried persuading and even bribing. I offered to free all our house elves in exchange for a shabby seven N.E.W.T.s, but it was all in vain.'

'Seven? You said twelve!'

'It must have slipped my mind. Oh, here comes my mother. Excuse me.'

He walked towards the elder Mrs Malfoy, who seemed to have some trouble with her cloak.

'Don't say a word,' Hermione whispered to McGonagall, 'but I got thirteen N.E.W.T.s. It's my new year's surprise for Lucius.'

'Thirteen? He only got twelve!'

'Exactly my point,' Hermione said and went to greet her mother-in-law.

More guests arrived; the crowd moved slowly upstairs and filtered into the ballroom. Hermione still had trouble memorizing all the names and faces – she was very good with dates and facts, but identifying people wasn't her strong suit.

Harry and Ginny had just arrived and were lingering in the entrance hall. Hermione hadn't seen Ron in ages and rather counted on him attending the party, but Ginny had informed her that he'd chosen to accept an invitation from his brother Bill. 'Fleur said she was going to invite Lavender Brown. I think that clinched it.'

'Lavender? Well I never – stay close, Ginny, you must tell me all about it.'

Ginny had nodded and steered Harry to a quiet corner, where they pretended to be watching the arriving guests. When Hermione heard Ginny shriek softly, she thought at first that The Boy Who Was Unable to Keep His Hands to Himself had given further proof of his rampant libido. But then she saw Ginny's wide-open eyes and looked towards the door. 'Lucius…' she said weakly.

He cast her a quick sideways glance and winked, before saying, 'Kingsley, what a pleasure. I am very glad you could make it. And Mrs. Shacklebolt, how good of you to come.'

'Hem, hem.' Dolores Shacklebolt extended a fat little hand that sparkled with diamonds, and giggled when Lucius bent stoically down to kiss it. 'Thank you for your kind invitation. It's a pleasure, hem, hem, to welcome the New Year in the company of friends.'

'I couldn't have expressed it better. You know Hermione, my wife?'

'Hem, yes, I, hem, believe we've met.' She offered her hand to Hermione in a rustle of pink moiré.

'Oh, I remember you perfectly,' Hermione said. 'I never had a Defence against the Dark Arts teacher quite like you. And that's really saying something.' When the unhappy couple was out of hearing distance, she hissed, 'Why on earth did you invite them?'

'I don't recall inviting them. I thought you did.'

'That's the silliest thing you've ever – oh, Lucius! Do you think they're planning something?'

'I'm not sure,' Lucius said slowly. 'But I certainly don't like the thought of the two of them traipsing around our house. Why don't you…' He scanned their surroundings. 'Ah, there they are. Why don't you ask your friend Mr Potter to keep an eye on them? I'll tell Bunter to stay with Potter and his wife, so he can alert us immediately.'

'That won't be necessary. I'd rather you told Bunter to give the news to the other elves. Leave Harry to me.'

She was surprised to find Draco engaged in animated conversation with the young couple. Obviously Harry's newfound enthusiasm for all things Malfoy included Draco. Or maybe he'd realized that they had more in common than he'd thought.

'I already told ferret-boy about Umbridge,' Harry said. 'Why in bloody hell did you invite that toad and her cheating liar of a husband?'

'That's exactly the problem. I didn't invite her, and neither did Lucius.'

'So it's maybe a good thing I brought this,' Harry whispered, eyes a-glow, and pulled a well-known object out of an inner pocket of his dress robes.

'The Invisibility – oh, Harry, that's brilliant! Why did you bring it?'

He was avoiding her eyes when he muttered, 'Oh, just in case.'

'Harry! Tell me why you brought it!'

'Ferret here said he-'

'Draco?' She crossed her arms and glared at him. 'What did you think you were going to need Harry's cloak for?'

'Oh, come off it, Granger. I didn't mean to spy on you and father, so don't get your knickers in a twist.'

'Why, you perverted, little – what?' she snapped irritably when Harry grabbed her arm.

'Hermione, he just said that he _didn't_ mean to spy on you and Malfoy.'

'So that was the first thing that came to his mind, which means that that was exactly what he meant to do. Oh, I'm so going to hex you, Draco!'

'Umbridge?' Ginny ventured.

'Right, yes.' Hermione gave Draco another withering look before concentrating on the essential problem. 'I can't snoop around, because I'm supposed to play hostess. So you'll have to keep an eye on the old toad – Draco, you're going to help, aren't you?'

Draco grinned. 'Just like old times, isn't it?'

'I hope it's not. Ginny, be a good girl and try to stay near her while she talks to people. Maybe you'll overhear something important. Harry and Draco, can you stay under that cloak together without killing each other?'

'Only if he doesn't try to cop a feel.'

Ginny patted her husband's arm. 'I'll hex him for you, darling, if he does.'

Hermione rolled her eyes. 'For heaven's sake, this could be serious. Harry, Ginny, have you still got your DA coins?' They both nodded. 'Oh, good. So we can communicate. Off you go. And thanks!'

'I bet it's going to be a lot more fun than talking to father's boring friends.'

'Tell me something I don't know.'

Lucius was waiting for her at the bottom of the staircase. 'Have the troops been deployed?' He offered her his arm.

'Harry had the serendipitous idea to bring the Invisibility Cloak. Did you instruct Bunter?'

'I did.' He smiled down at her. 'You're enjoying this, aren't you?'

'It's as Draco said. Just like the old times. Only we're Aurors now, and wives…'

'Potter is an Auror in training, to be exact. And Draco's still at school. As for being wives – both you and Mrs Potter… I think I need a drink. I just realized that she is my half-sister by adoption. Which makes Potter my brother-in-law.'

'One big, happy family,' Hermione said. 'Isn't that nice.' She gave his arm an affectionate squeeze, and they entered the warmth and noise of the grand ballroom.

* * *

It was past four a.m. when the last guests left. Hermione sat down on the carpet, right in the centre of the entrance hall, and started massaging her feet after she'd taken off her shoes. Lucius joined her, carrying a bottle of firewhisky and two glasses.

'I'm getting to old for this,' he observed.

'Nonsense. I'm a bit younger than you, and I'm completely exhausted.' She took a deep swig of whisky. 'I hope you're not interested in sex, because I'm not. I merely want to relax a bit, and then sleep.'

'Not really, no. Not because I don't think you're attractive, because you're lovely, but…' He gestured at the surrounding mess. 'One more for the road?'

Hermione held out her glass so he could pour her another generous dose. 'I still can't believe they just came for the buffet. I was so sure they were hatching some evil plan.'

'Not just for the buffet,' Lucius said glumly. 'We're missing twenty silver spoons, three jars of Beluga caviar, and they also seem to have emptied my pockets. There can't have been more than three or four hundred galleons, but the insult rankles all the same. Your friend Potter is a complete failure. To think that he's going to be an Auror!'

'It's all your fault, really. If you hadn't led to believe Kingsley that he wouldn't have to marry Umbridge if he gave the money back…'

'I didn't say a word. He arrived at the conclusion all by himself.'

'Still,' she said, 'it's all a bit anticlimactic, don't you think?'

'But rather reassuring. I frankly don't mind a certain lack of evil plots, especially other people's evil plots.'

'Spoken like a true civil servant.'

'You're merely green with envy, because I'm minister, and you're too young to be eligible for parliament.'

'I'll be eligible the next time round. And woe upon you if you dare oppress me.' She staggered to her feet and held out her hand. 'Come on, time to go to bed.'

'I'm still perfectly able to get up on my own, thank you very much. But' – he chuckled when they had trouble climbing the stairs – 'it's a good thing that we've got four legs between the two of us. Do you remember there being so many steps?'

'That was Umbridge, I'm telling you. She cursed the stairs, so we'll never be able to get to our bedroom.'

Steadying himself with his left hand on the banister, and his wife with his right arm round her waist, Lucius looked upwards in despair. 'There have always been thirteen, and then eighteen, and then another thirteen. That's a total of… Oh, never mind. Surely less than fifty. But I've already counted fifty, and we're not even halfway up.'

Hermione waved the whisky bottle so enthusiastically that half of its contents landed on Lucius's shirt and her dress. 'Speaking of thirteen – I got thirteen N.E.W.T.s! I wanted to tell you at midnight, but you kissed me so… so extremely well that I completely forgot.'

'Thirteen N.E.W.T.s?' Lucius snorted. 'You haven't even got one, let alone thirteen! I'm not that drunk, you know?'

'Thirteen,' she repeated stubbornly. 'Right now I can't remember where I put my diploma, but I'll show you tomorrow. Well, today. Oh, sod it.'

The intrepid mountaineer and his faithful sherpa had reached the mountaintop and needed to rebuild their strength. Watching her husband guzzle whisky from the bottle, Hermione told herself that she'd have to keep this image in her memory. Unfortunately, she didn't remember a thing when she woke up. Or rather she did, but another image had replaced the booze-quaffing minister.

They'd successfully covered the distance from the staircase to their bedroom, and Lucius held the door open for her. 'What?' he said, when he saw her freeze, eyes bulging and her hand clutching her throat.

His reflexes weren't much hampered by inebriation; he'd pushed Hermione behind him and drawn his wand within the second. Then he slowly lowered his wand and merely stared.

Their bed was occupied. Ginevra Potter, née Weasley, was sprawled across the mattress, naked as on the day she'd been born, red hair cascading wildly over the pillows. Her husband, also fast asleep, had rested his head on her lower belly, and Draco was curled up against her side. The room fairly reeked of sex.

Lucius closed the door without a noise and dragged a half-sleeping, half-delirious Hermione to the opposite end of the corridor, where the guest rooms lay.

'Did you see that? They had a threesome, in our bed! Oh my god, Molly would go spare if she knew! Her little girl, fucking Harry and Draco at the same time, I don't believe it!'

'Neither do I, but at least it explains why Umbridge was free to pillage our house. And you're _not_ going to tell that Weasley termagant!'

'Of course I'm not. But just imagining her face makes me feel all fuzzy.'

'And you're not going to tease Draco about it!'

Hermione sat down on the edge of the bed and gave him a look of pure innocence. 'You know I won't.'

'Because, if he's discovering women, we wouldn't want to stand in nature's way.'

'Maybe it's just Harry who's discovering men.'

'Oh, shut up.'

'I got thirteen N.E. – E.W.T.s,' she chanted, 'And you only got twe – elve!'

'Shut _up_, you brat!'

'Lucius is jealous, Lucius is jealous!'

'You're completely drunk.'

'So are you.'

'Yes, but I'm a drunk minister, and you're merely a drunk girl with thirteen N.E.W.T.s. Did I already tell you I'm very proud of you? Hermione?'

Hermione emitted a soft mewl, turned to her side and started to snore.

It was dark in the room, and rather cold. Outside, a flurry of snowflakes was whirling past the window, gently touching the glass.

Lucius took off his shoes and loosened his cravat, then crawled into bed and curled up against his wife. Hermione stirred in her sleep and muttered a few unintelligible words. Then she went back to snoring, but stopped when Lucius pulled the duvet over the two of them and kissed her shoulder.

He'd already dozed off, when she cried out in her sleep. 'Shush, my love,' he murmured sleepily. 'Shush. It's just a bad dream.' But she'd woken him up, and he decided to take advantage. His hands worked quickly and efficiently on the fastenings of her robes.

It wasn't a bad dream, not really. She was dreaming about participating in a heated discussion in parliament, Lucius sitting on the government bench and looking supremely smug, as a couple of uniformed janitors were unscrewing all the seats, so the venerable MPs had to remain on their feet.

'Budget cuts, I deeply regret,' said the minister of finance, smirking and motioning for the janitors to continue. 'No benches, no quills' – Hermione was struggling against the man who was wrenching the quill from her fingers – 'and no clothes, I'm afraid.'

'This is outrageous,' she yelled, kicking and biting as the janitor started unfastening her robes. 'I'll sue you, minister, I'll…'

She woke up to the sound of her own moans and realized that the minister of finance was indeed taking possession of her robes. 'Budget cuts?' she murmured.

Lucius raised an eyebrow. 'Not as far as I know, my love.'

Suddenly sober, she stared up into his face. His hair was obscuring it, but she thought he was smiling. 'Slip of your tongue?'

'I don't think so,' he said.

F I N I S


End file.
